


The 'Under the Crescent Moon' Raid

by glacis



Category: Rat Patrol
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troy saves Dietrich.  Moffitt distracts Dietrich.  Troy saves Dietrich again.  Moffitt distracts Dietrich again.  Poor, poor Dietrich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 'Under the Crescent Moon' Raid

THE ‘UNDER THE CRESCENT MOON’ RAID by Sue Castle _(with apologies for any formatting weirdness with the German and Arabic phrases)_

The mission started off okay. Hit 'em fast, hit 'em hard, shells and grenades flying with deadly aim, tanks exploding and krauts scattering. Then it hit a snag. Troy had a feeling the day wouldn't go too well when Moffitt and Tully didn't show up in the second jeep. When Dietrich resurrected himself from the burning shell of his command car, the day went from bad to worse.

"Turn around slowly, Sergeant. Sony I missed you the other night at the oasis."

Not a voice he expected to hear. Troy did as he was told and glared assessing at the German captain. The guy was weaving like a two-bit drunk, but the hand holding the pistol was steady as the grave. Troy grimaced. Bad word choice, even to himself. Dietrich's eyes blinked shut, then he squinted, glaring at Troy as he tried to get his eyes to focus.  The gun barrel didn't so much as waver.

As usual when he was caught dead to rights, Troy stuck with being a smart ass.

Maybe if he pissed Dietrich off enough, the other man might make a mistake. It'd only take one. "My apologies. Maybe your reception won't be as hot next time, Captain."

Dietrich barely frowned at him. Damn, that had been a good attempt, too. Stony-faced, the captain told him, "Now we relax. My men will be looking for me very soon. Throw me your gun."

His eyes went wide then squinted shut again, for just an instant, but he regained his balance before Troy could capitalize on the moment of weakness. Eyes sharp for an opening, any opening, he tossed Dietrich his pistol. Walking sideways slowly to get the sun out of his eyes, he saw movement on the dune behind Dietrich.

The Arabs showed up. The day really went in the shit can.

"What about your other friends?" That would be his luck, today. They'd be kraut sympathizers. Dietrich's answer surprised him, almost as much as the little grin he flashed. Troy didn't think he'd ever seen the German actually smile, much less laugh.

"I too have seen the American cinema, Sergeant." He looked really amused. Must be the knock on the head from the car flipping over. Concussion could do that to a guy. Make him almost human. Troy grinned a little, himself.

"All right. Don't take my word for it." Carefully, respecting Dietrich's trigger finger, Troy shifted position further uphill until Dietrich could see past him to the three Arabs on horseback coming up on them. Two of them were in black turbans and one was in white.

Instinctively, Troy concentrated on the older man in the middle. He had to be the leader, from the way the black-hatted guys were covering him with their rifles. By the time Troy stopped moving he was shoulder to shoulder with Dietrich.

The German didn't look so happy now. Good, they must not be on his side. Of course, that didn't mean they were on Troy's, either. The pistol Dietrich had been pointing at Troy was now pointed toward the Arabs and Troy found himself giving warning. "I wouldn't cut loose with that handgun. I've heard they're pretty good with those rifles." Didn't look like they'd hesitate a second to use 'em, either.

Dietrich's voice sounded a little shakier. 'They must have heard us firing."

Troy nodded. ''Yeah. They like the shell casings. Make bangles out of 'em and give 'em to their wives."

The guy in the white turban jabbered something at Dietrich. If it was possible, the captain's spine stiffened even further than usual. Troy wondered how much of it was instinctive reaction to threat and how much was pig-headed determination not to fall over in a heap. Dietrich's head had to be killing him.

"They want the guns." Dietrich sounded like he didn't believe it. Troy shot him a sideways glance. What'd he expect?

"Give it to 'em." Self evident. Dietrich gave them one. Troy's.

There was a little more jabbering, then Dietrich gave them a dirty look and handed them his, too. Troy took a slightly deeper breath. Before he could move, one of the black-hatted guys swung down off his horse and came up behind them. He was carrying a chain.

Long sucker. Big shackles at either end.

Dietrich made a move that might have been a feint to draw the Arab's attention, or might have been involuntary given his physical condition. Didn't matter either way; the Arab swatted him with the end of the rifle and sent him over on his ass. Troy moved without thinking about it and ended up between Dietrich's already battered head and the business end of the Arab's rifle. He put up his right hand, palm out, universal sign of surrender.

The Arab locked a manacle around his wrist.

Without further fuss, the Arab grabbed Dietrich's left arm and shackled the two men together. Then he prodded with the barrel of his rifle until Dietrich pulled himself to his feet. Not examining his reasons too closely, Troy drew the Arab's attention again while the captain got himself moving. That earned him a clout to the ear that he almost dodged, and they were on their way.

The chain was fucking heavy.

The sand was fucking slippery.

The sun was fucking hot.

And he didn't like the look on Dietrich's face. Numb-eyed. Pale, under the sweat.

Too close to passing out for comfort. Troy was having a bitch of a time carting his end of the chain. No way on God's green earth he was going to try to drag Dietrich along too. He decided to distract him. Half an hour of nonsense about sunburns and forced vacations later he finally got a rise from his fellow captive.

''Y'know, in Miami they'd charge ya thirty dollars a day for this. And we're gettin' it for nothin'."

Dietrich gave a much put-upon snarl. 'Why don't you shut up?"

Well, it was better than a kick in the teeth. At least the guy was perking up a little.

Didn't look like he was gonna fall over and roll down the sand dune. That was an improvement. Keeping a weather eye on his now thoroughly-irritated companion, Troy shut up and kept walking.

For almost an hour. Then the silence really started to grate on his nerves. Besides, Dietrich was looking like he was gonna fall asleep on his feet again.

''Y'know, if you don't like Miami, there's always Los Angeles. Out in the high desert, looks a hell of a lot like this."

A pained groan was the only reply he got.

They walked for a day that lasted forever. No rest, no water, and only his running monologue to keep them from going crazy with the heat and the quiet. Well, to keep Troy himself from going crazy. From the way Dietrich was showing the whites of his eyes, it might just drive him crazy. By the time the sun started to sink, they were more than happy to fall over and pant while one of the black-hatted guys made a fire.

Not that they got anything to eat. Or drink, for that matter. But when the sun went down the desert got colder than a witch's tit, and Troy was happy to huddle next to the little fire and try not to shiver too obviously. He even sat closer to Dietrich than he otherwise would. Body heat was a beautiful thing.

Which left him perfectly placed to see a strange thing. The Arab in the white hat brushed Troy's shoulder lightly as he walked behind him, like a horse trader petting a horse's flank. That was odd enough. But then the Arab walked behind Dietrich and ran his fingers through his hair. Dietrich went completely still.

Troy shuddered.

The touch bothered him. A lot. He'd seen men react like this to prisoners of war before and it gave him the creeps. The whole thing scared him a little, and he didn't scare easily. Strangely enough, he wasn't scared for himself.

He was scared for Dietrich.

The Arab leaned low over Dietrich's shoulder, fingers clenching in his hair, pulling his head back a little. He muttered, too low for Troy to hear even if he could've understood Arabic, which he didn't. Whatever he said, Dietrich didn't like it. His expression didn't change much, just got bleaker, and his back straightened as much as it could with his head yanked back like that. Then the Arab let him go, slapping the back of his head a little, and Dietrich sent him a look that should've dropped the guy dead.

'What'd he say?" Troy asked under his breath when the Arab was back on the other side of the fire and the coast was as clear as it would get.

"Nothing important."

That wasn't real helpful. Troy scowled at Dietrich. "I'll be the judge of that." Dietrich barely glanced at him, eyes looking black in the low light from the fire.

"Strong backs and sun-drained hair." He went back to staring at the fire.

Troy stared at him, waiting for the rest of it. When nothing else came, he prodded, "That it?"

Dietrich nodded and clammed up tight. Troy sighed. Like that had made any sense at all. Arabs. Almost as bad as Germans when they wanted to be. Dietrich stared into the fire awhile then seemed to come to a decision.

He asked very quietly, 'What direction d'you think we're heading?" He said it like he knew, but was getting a second opinion. Troy thought for a moment.

"South, I think. Seems like we're heading deeper into the desert." He hadn't expected Dietrich to chuckle at that. It was a bitter little sound.

"Precisely what I thought. Sergeant, we are caught by slave traders."

Not what he'd expected to hear. Troy controlled his double-take and glanced sideways at Dietrich. The guy looked ridiculously calm considering what he'd just said. "Slave traders?!"

The German didn't bother looking at him. "Uh-huh."

Well, shit. 'Then we better get out of here." Troy grimaced. Stating the obvious. Dietrich glanced wryly at him. Black humor edged his voice. 'What do you suggest?"

Several suggestions came right to the tip of Troy's tongue, but he bit them all back.

No use wishing for a howitzer when all a guy had was a rock. He blinked. Rock. Fire. Chain. Huh. Could work. He edged a little closer to Dietrich and dropped his voice until it was barely a whisper. "Let's warm up first."

Dietrich gave him another one of those quick sideways glances under his eyelashes. His thigh shifted. Troy blinked again and hurried to flesh out his plan, such as it was. Shoving gently with the toe of his boot and swinging almost invisibly with his manacle, he shifted the links of the chain until they were lodged against the rocks ringing the fire, lying across the embers on the far side of the flames from the Arabs.

'When I take a swing at you, return it," he instructed Dietrich under his breath.

The grin he got, showing dimples and teeth, shocked him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

'With pleasure." Courteous words with a street fighter's enthusiasm under them.

Troy managed not to grin in return. No use giving the Arabs any more warning than necessary.

''When he comes over to break it up, we give him the chain."

It should have gone like taking candy from a baby. Take a swing at Dietrich, Arab boss comes over and makes like a hostage, chained enemies escape into the night.

Except it didn't. His luck ran true to form for the day. Pure shit.

One of the guys in the black turbans came from the left as the head guy came in from the right. Troy jerked back with a double-handful of chain, ready to sizzle the crap out of the old Arab, but he hadn't counted on Dietrich ducking out of the way of the second Arab. Troy was jolted off balance for a second by a hard yank on the chain. Just long enough for the head man to get a knife up under his chin, serrated edge scraping the skin above his Adam's apple. Troy froze.

It took Dietrich a couple seconds to realize what was going on and decide to stop fighting. Troy glared at him, not appreciating the delayed decision. Dietrich let go of the black-turbaned guy with extreme reluctance. Troy was opening his mouth for a truly sarcastic vote of thanks when the knife left his throat and what felt like a brick hit him on the side of the head.

The campfire swung dizzily, or maybe it was him, but his hands were numb and his knees had turned to water. Troy landed in a heap next to the rocks, arm stretched out toward Dietrich, not from choice but from necessity. The chain holding them together was stretched as far as it would go. Troy stared muzzily at the dark links against the light sand, colors from the fire playing along the metal. They matched the colors he was seeing inside his eyelids.

An unexpected noise distracted him from the explosion going off inside his head.

With a supreme effort he rolled his head to the side. The guy Dietrich had taken down was now returning the favor, holding the German against the sand. The head Arab was doing something with his hand down along the front of Dietrich's britches, and Troy came up instinctively to fight before he realized what he was seeing. The third Arab came out of nowhere, and for the second time that night, Troy found himself on his knees with a knife at his throat. His sight was fading in and out, but he was alert enough to see what he saw and know what he was seeing. Dietrich's arms, the manacle dark around one wrist, were pinned above his head. His face was turned away from the fire, half-buried in the sand, must've been suffocating, and that couldn't be good for him with everything else he'd already gone through that day. Firelight glanced off his hip and thigh as the head slaver put his weight on Dietrich's ankles and leaned forward over his body. Draperies fell forward, but Troy didn't need to see the details to know what was going on under there. The movement was more than enough.

He didn't know when he passed out. Just knew it wasn't soon enough. The last thing he heard as the world went away was the last thing he'd ever expected to hear. Dietrich's voice didn't sound right when it was making that dry rasping noise. Couldn't be a sob. Wasn't quite a scream. It was enough to give Troy nightmares. The only way Troy knew his throat hadn't been cut when he passed out was that he hadn't bled to death by the time he woke up. The fire had burned down, and he was shivering. The camp was quiet.

No more raspy noises. He didn't know whether to be relieved or nervous. Peering out from under lowered eyelids, he located Dietrich's body lying a few feet away. He stared at the chest until he saw it rise and fall. Good. Be hard enough to escape as it was. Dragging Dietrich's corpse along would make it impossible. Troy told himself it was unadulterated self-interest that made him feel so relieved he was light-headed. Couldn't be anything else.

There was a war on, after all.

Forcing his meandering thoughts back to his first priority, escape, he rolled very slowly from his side onto his belly. One of the Arabs twitched, but the movement died down after a moment and Troy continued his slow crawl forward. The last plan he'd come up with had been a good one, if not quite good enough, and he would improvise on it now. After what felt like a thousand years of shifting across the sand like a sidewinder in slow motion, he fetched up against Dietrich's side. By then, he'd come up with a good twist on the original plan.

"Awake?" he hissed. Dietrich stiffened against him and nodded once. "Good." Troy jerked his head toward the lump of dirty white linen that was the lead slaver. "Moan, and when he comes over here, smack him my direction."

This time when Dietrich said, ''With pleasure," Troy could hear sheer hatred behind the words. Troy shifted back a foot or so, giving Dietrich a little room to maneuver. Dietrich shrugged his shoulders, getting purchase with his fists against the sand, and gave a nice, low, painful-sounding moan.

Worked like a charm. The Arabs came awake, muttering to one another, and the head guy came over and crouched beside Dietrich. He stuck his hand into Dietrich's hair again, pulling his head back a little, jabbering a few words of the local lingo in his face. Dietrich spat something back that sounded insulting even to Troy who didn't speak the lingo. Whatever it was, it worked. The Arab let go of Dietrich's hair and drew back to slap him across the face.

That was all the opening Dietrich needed. He came up faster than even Troy had expected, his right hand flashing up and catching the slaver full across the chops with a back-handed slap that echoed like a cannon shot. His aim was perfect. The slaver reeled backward and fell on Troy, who took advantage of the situation to steal the knife he'd had held to his own throat and whisk it up under the Arab's chin.

"Tell him to bring the horses!" Troy barked to Dietrich, who was still staring at the Arab leader as if he'd like to rip the man's guts out with his teeth. Not that Troy could blame him, but they didn't have time for it. Escape first, and no way in hell were they going to get out of there on foot.

Then it became a moot point. Before Dietrich could translate, the lead slaver yelled, and one of the other Arabs went screaming after the horses, scaring them off into the darkness.

"You're a fool," Dietrich snarled at the leader. Troy muttered "shit" to no one in particular and decided on foot was better than nothing.

Yanking the lead slaver up with the knife against his neck, Troy barked, ''They follow, he dies!"

From the smile on Dietrich's face as he translated that, Troy had the feeling Dietrich would really enjoy it if they did follow. His mind supplied a fuzzy picture of Dietrich on the ground and the Arab on top of him, then he shook it off.

Maybe he wouldn't be all that unhappy if they followed, either. The only problem was, a hostage wasn't worth much as a corpse. Holding the knife steady, he forced the Arab to his feet. Dietrich came around the other side, using the chain to keep the slaver in place, and the three moved cautiously away from the camp.

They weren't followed. That was a mixed blessing. Yeah, the hostage was alive, so they were safe for the moment. On the other hand, the hostage was alive, and he was close enough to dead weight as to make no difference. It wasn't very long before the sun rose. Too damned soon, heat was radiating off the sand, and the captive became more trouble than he was worth. The fifth or sixth time the Arab collapsed, Troy'd had enough. Twisted to the side, he let the slaver fall, unraveling the chain in the process. "This is where you get off, Muhammad."

The Arab rattled something off at Dietrich, and the German's hand snatched for the knife Troy still held. Troy barely got it away in time, then carefully stashed the knife in his boot.

'What makes you think I trust you with this?"

Dietrich glared at Troy with almost as much contempt as he showed the Arab, who chose that moment to spout off some more. Dietrich's face went white beneath the coating of sand, soot and engine grease on it. He yanked on the chain, muscles bunching in his shoulders as he gathered a length up to bash the Arab over the noggin with it. Troy appreciated the sentiment, but he had other things on his mind at the moment. Namely, survival and escape. His hand went out and stopped Dietrich's movement. "Save your strength."

As Troy and Dietrich staggered down the dune, the Arab hollered one last time after them. Troy could hear Dietrich's teeth grinding.

'What'd he say?" As expected, the only answer Dietrich gave him was another glare, directed equally toward Troy and the Arab they were leaving behind. Troy shrugged and slogged ahead, vaguely northeast, back toward the battle lines.

The chain didn't get any lighter as the day dragged on. Troy took his own advice and saved both strength and breath, squinting against the sun glaring off the sand. He poured all his energy into putting one foot in front of the other and concentrated on not swallowing the pebble he sucked on to keep some spit in his mouth. It wasn't much, but he hoped it'd be enough to keep him alive.

There wasn't a lot of wind, and hardly any sound, so when Dietrich fell over behind him, Troy heard the soft impact of body on sand. He couldn't react fast enough to keep himself from being pulled to a stop as the length of chain between them pulled tight. It wasn't much of a pull, but it was enough to send him to his knees. Taking the rest where he could get it, he put his arms straight out in front of him. He hung his head, trying to lessen the tension in his neck and shake off the headache pounding his skull.

He didn't hear Dietrich coming up behind him, but he heard the clinking of the links as the German gathered the chain up to brain him with it. Troy sighed. The man must be sun-crazy. Twisting in place, he glared up at Dietrich, totally fed up.

''You kill me, you're gonna have to carry me out of this desert on your back. And you won't get two miles in this heat." He didn't have to call Dietrich 'stupid.' It was easily read from the tone of his voice. Dietrich glared back at him.

"I'm not going to carry you ten feet." The dark eyes blazing down at him were a little glassy. Troy shook his head, partly in understanding, partly in disgust.

"How you gonna dispose of me? Cut off my hand? With what?"

He glared up at Dietrich until the sense of what he was saying finally sank into Dietrich's sun-baked, explosion-rocked, Arab-fucked brain. It took a while. Troy understood the delay. Hey, first a grenade up his tail pipe, then a wagon lands on top of him, then he's after-dinner dessert for a horny Arab, on top of two days of Troy's own attempts at conversation, something Dietrich could only stand for ten minutes on a good day without wanting to shoot him ... Troy fought back a grin. No wonder Dietrich wanted to kill Troy and run away. Troy couldn't blame him for trying, just for not thinking it through.

Dietrich's eyes dropped, and he dropped the chain too, staring down dully at the sand. A pang of sympathy hit Troy, but he shook it off. No time for that. First things first, and the first thing they had to do was live through this. The rest of it they could deal with later.

Maybe.

Taking advantage of Dietrich's momentary surrender, Troy forced himself to his feet and trudged off again. The jerk on the chain as Dietrich staggered up to join him nearly pulled him back off his feet, but he put his head down and soldiered on. He was good at that. He'd had a lot of practice.

He could feel Dietrich's eyes burning holes in his back. Good thing the Arabs had taken their guns, after all. Good thing he had the knife in his boot, too, and Dietrich had apparently forgotten it. Unfortunately, he couldn't count on that little bit of luck holding. He hated to do it, but he couldn't take the chance that of him passing out and Dietrich getting hold of the knife. If that happened, the German was apt to cut Troy's throat and cut off his hand, solving both problems at the same time.

Two stumbles later, Troy took care of that temptation. He waited until Dietrich was a short way away along the dune, then curled over just far enough to hide his actions as he dug a hole in the sand and buried the knife. Dietrich was on his way over to find out what the hold-up was when Troy got back to his feet and waved him off. Dietrich never saw the disturbed sand where the knife was buried.

After an hour or so, Troy was yanked to another abrupt halt. He glanced tiredly over his shoulder, to find Dietrich lying face-first on the side of the dune. He took a deep breath and blew it out. Sucking on the pebble one last time, he dug it out from under his tongue and wove his way back to the half-conscious German.

"Your turn." He tried to hand the pebble off. Dietrich made a protesting noise and turned his head away, as if he was afraid Troy was trying to poison him. Troy was irresistibly reminded of his five-year-old nephew back home when his sister tried to feed him vegetables. "Go on, suck on it, work up some saliva." He caught Dietrich's chin in his hand and nudged it around, pressing the pebble against his lips until Dietrich finally opened his mouth far enough to take it. "C'mon, it won't bite."

Dietrich didn't look too sure about that, but at least he didn't spit it back out again. Troy shook his head, sighed again, and pulled Dietrich back to his feet. They trudged on.

It was amazing how god damned long a single day could take. By mid-afternoon, the air was dancing over the sand, and everywhere Troy looked he saw water. The fact that he knew it was a mirage didn't help. Eventually he shut his eyes. Then he fell over. When he came to, Dietrich was crouched over him, brushing sand off his cheeks and smacking his face to bring him around. That's when he realized he'd passed out.

"Thanks." He sounded exhausted even to himself. Dietrich still had some juice to him, though. Probably 'cause he still had the pebble, the bastard.

"Don't thank me yet."

Troy felt like strangling him, if he'd had the energy for it. Fed up, he snapped, "C'mon. Truce, Dietrich."

Fierce brown eyes stared down at him. "One condition."

Troy answered instantly, not needing to think about it. "Name it." He'd dance with the devil himself if it got them out of the desert intact.

"That we keep each other alive, no matter what happens."

Troy met Dietrich's steady gaze, and nodded slowly. "Until we're safe and free of this chain." One thing he knew about Dietrich. He was an irritating son of a bitch, but he was an honorable man.

Dietrich nodded in return. Surprisingly gently, he said, "All right, now. We've got to find the trail. Because, Sergeant, if we don't, we'll never find my column. All right? Let's go!"

Three steps later Troy asked for the pebble back. Dietrich shrugged one shoulder, looking more French than German, and handed it back to him. Troy put out a hand for it and Dietrich reached past him, heading for his lips. Instinctively, Troy opened his mouth and Dietrich placed the pebble on his tongue.

He didn't know if Dietrich hadn't seen his hand, or plain ignored it. Maybe it was payback for having to force the thing into Dietrich's mouth. Whyever he did it, Troy found himself licking his lips, sandpaper over tinder.

Even filthy, he could still taste Dietrich. He growled to himself. Some thoughts were better left ... unthought.

No time to get distracted. Had to come up with a plan. Had to get himself out of this corner. Had to have some options ready.

Had to stop watching Dietrich's ass staggering along in front of him, and envying the fucking Arab.

By the time they crested the final ridge and saw the German column in the valley below, it wasn't just sunstroke making Troy crazy. Dietrich's little smile didn't help any.

"My column, Sergeant." Oddly enough, there was no triumph in his voice, simply a matter-of-fact statement. "I'm afraid this war is over for you." He actually sounded a little regretful. Troy swept an eye over the scene and made a snap decision.

"Congratulations." He pulled the chain hard and dove head-first down the hill at the same time. Dietrich didn't even have time to yell. Troy controlled his fall to some extent, but the German was taken completely by surprise. By the time they rolled to a stop, wound together like dogs tangled in a leash, Troy was feeling every damned rock he'd hit all the way down.

Dietrich was unconscious.

It took the last reserves of his strength, but Troy managed to pull Dietrich into the shadow of a burned out truck. Dietrich was heavier than he looked. Troy got him situated out of the direct sun, then scooted over as far as the chain would reach until he could get to the radiator, hoping against hope that there was some water still left. It took a few silent cuss words and battering it with a handy rock, but he got about a cupful of brackish water out of it.

Then it ran dry. Remembering his promise, after the first flush of near-lust the water had induced had passed, Troy tried to gather up some water to bring back to Dietrich. There wasn't much, and he arched up under the radiator again, whacking it and shaking loose a few more precious drops. Holding it carefully in his mouth, he crawled back over to Dietrich and patted wet hands all over the German's face. When he started to show signs of life, twitching closed eyes, a frown pulling his eyebrows together, Troy caught Dietrich's jaw in one hand and placed his mouth over Dietrich's. Using his tongue to pry the dry lips apart, he very carefully dribbled the small amount of water he'd managed to salvage from the radiator into Dietrich's mouth.

It wasn't enough to bring Dietrich all the way around, but his survival instinct was strong. He sucked at Troy's mouth with all the strength he had left, hands coming up to grab hold of the front of Troy's shirt. Troy kept still, letting the thirsty tongue roam over the inside of his mouth, telling himself it was charity. Honor. Keeping his promise. He ignored the fact that he was enjoying it a hell of a lot more than he should. Fuzzy memories of the previous night intruded, and he found himself getting hard. Not liking where this was leading him, he gently pried Dietrich away and laid him back on the sand.

Dietrich's color and his breathing were better, but he was still pretty much out of it. Troy stared at him for a long moment before the sound of oncoming trucks shook him out of his thoughts.

Right. The chain. Had to get out of the chain. Had a mission to complete. He had to stop mooning over Dietrich like a teenage girl. Start acting like the soldier he was. Stop wanting what he couldn't have.

A tire iron made a handy spade to dig a trench for Troy to camouflage the chain. A discarded rim made a perfect tool to cut the chain when the half-track rumbled over it. Troy kept his head down and his fist as far out of the way as he could, and rolled under cover as soon as the chain gave. Fortunately, the end of the chain caught enough to drag Dietrich out into the open, but not enough to drag the man under the treads. The German atop the half-track saw his Captain being towed behind and yelled for the column to stop.

Worked like a charm. Dietrich was alive up to the chain getting cut, then rescued by his men, so Troy had kept his part of the bargain. Now the truce was over and it was time to get back to his mission. He scuttled back along the column under the view line of the drivers and hauled himself into the passenger side of the last truck in the convoy, waving off Hitch's comment on his sunburn and croaking out a request for water. It was damned hard drinking it slowly. Felt like the finest whiskey he'd ever tasted.

From that point on, his luck was back on track. The raid went like a dream.

~~~

The last thing Dietrich remembered was standing on a ridge feeling an incredible rush of relief as his column came into view. His head was swimming from sun, fatigue, and the aftereffects of the Arabs' treatment of him, but he was a Wehrmacht officer, and he did not allow his weakness to undermine his effectiveness. He said a few words to Troy, enough to let him know that the truce was over, that they were safe. That the war was now finished for the American.

Then, as was the norm where the Rat Patrol was concerned, the world slipped on its axis and his control over the situation disappeared. The next thing he knew he was tumbling head over heels down the side of the hill, then pain hit the back of his head, then nothing.

The first thing he realized when he regained consciousness was that someone had run over him with a half-track. Or if they hadn't, perhaps he had been beaten with sticks. His shoulders were on fire, his back was aching, his head was fit to burst. He had sand burn from the middle of his back to his heels. His right arm was bruised from his hand to his shoulder and his hand was numb.

At least the manacle was gone.

His adjutant was holding a canteen to Dietrich's mouth of the most blessedly delightful water it had ever been his pleasure to drink, and it took all the willpower he had left not to gulp like a dog at a puddle. He managed to restrain himself and ask with a modicum of his usual dignity, ''What happened?"

The ensuing tale of being dragged along the road like a bundle of laundry explained the sand burn and the wrenched shoulders. Trust Troy to find a way to save Dietrich's life that made him feel as if he'd been beaten half to death, while still managing to effect his own escape. During the telling, a fleeting memory of a kiss came to him, and he wondered for an instant if he was hallucinating. His fingertips brushed his upper lip and felt a trace of moisture. The memory cleared.

Not a kiss. A drink. He blinked. Images sharpened in his mind, and he wondered.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it all.

Dietrich accepted a clean uniform shirt from an orderly and, after the medic cleaned the worst of the grit and oil from his scrapes, shrugged very carefully into it. It took much too long to climb into the observation post of the truck, but he managed not to sway noticeably or actually faint. He would take what small victories he could salvage from the fiasco.

The oasis resembled paradise when they finally arrived. Dietrich used the excuse of keeping a watchful eye on proceedings to cover the fact that he didn't think he had the equilibrium or strength yet to climb back down from the truck without passing out again. Unfortunately, it left him in a perfect position to see the final act in his most current disgrace at the hands of the Rat Patrol play itself out.

Young Hitchcock came roaring out of the back of one of their own lorries, jeep wheels spinning, as Troy ran from the water's edge to join him. Dietrich opened his mouth to cry warning and knew before he got the words out it would be too late. Bullets were flying everywhere and the second jeep sped into camp, spewing more bullets and distracting his men. Then a geyser erupted from the center of the oasis and Dietrich closed his eyes and set his jaw, managing by a hair not to scream curses after the retreating Rats like the villain in a melodrama. It was truly amazing how much damage Troy and his men could do.

Truly amazing how much damage Dietrich could take and not be shot by his own High Command for it.

The rest of the long afternoon was taken up with triage for the wounded, salvaging what little could be saved from the camp, and reporting to his superiors. After turning off the radio, Dietrich slid carefully from the back of the truck where the communication equipment was stored and headed off into the dunes. His entire body ached, his pride was in shreds, and his ears were still burning from the well-deserved scorn of his commander.

The cool wind of the desert air helped him regain his composure. Somewhat. He walked slowly, mindful of the wear his body had taken the past few days, and eventually found himself atop a small ridge some way from the wreck of his camp. The exercise had helped, loosening muscles tight from bruises and stress. He raised his field glasses and swept the area.

Impossible. Ridiculous. Dietrich glared through the lenses at the four members of the Rat Patrol off a short distance from him, also staring down at the destruction they had wrought. Conflicting urges swept through him. He wanted to shoot every one of them. Punch Troy in the jaw. Crack their heads together.

Thank Troy for not leaving him there with the Arab slavers. Ask him what he'd seen, and what he would say. If he could pretend it hadn't happened

Fighting to keep his hands from either waving them over or drawing his pistol, Dietrich curled his fingers into fists and planted his fists on his hips, letting his glasses fall to his chest as he glared over at the Rats. His ferocious regard must have somehow reached them, because he saw Moffitt freeze, then point to him. Troy turned as well, and even over the distance, for an instant, Dietrich could swear he saw warm blue eyes staring back at him. Some of his rage bled away. Whatever else he might be, scavenger, spy and saboteur, Sam Troy was a man of honor. He would say nothing. It would be as though none of what they'd survived, none of what had happened at the slavers' camp had ever been. It was better that way.

It was the only way.

~~~

Several weeks later, Dietrich stared at the innocuous white flag hanging limply from the antenna of his staff car and wondered how he'd managed to irritate God this time. Things had been going smoothly. A general escorted safely here, a supply convoy delivered intact there. Very little activity from the Rat Patrol and a commendation from his commanding officer.

Of course it couldn't last.

He'd been the one to contact Troy. Three of his men became ill from typhus, and villagers working at the local German encampments began to fall like flies. On a day much like this one he'd driven out to an area where Troy and his men had recently been sighted, wrapped a handkerchief around the radio antenna and waited. Twenty minutes later a jeep swung up beside him, spraying dust and sand, confirming his suspicions that he was under surveillance. He'd suspected the Rat Patrol had it in for him, and now he knew his paranoia was justified.

Troy hopped out from the back of his jeep and approached the side of Dietrich's car. He leaned a hip against the front bumper and grinned engagingly. Dietrich glared at him. It was a relatively short conversation.

"I have a letter here from Nurse Arno of the international Red Cross Red Crescent organization. They have vaccine and are prepared to use it to combat this epidemic. I propose a temporary cessation in hostilities until the crisis has passed. All right?" He sat in the driver's seat of his staff car at deceptive ease, his hand a fraction of an inch from the grip of his pistol.

"Truce?" Troy tilted his head to the side and studied him. Dietrich restrained a sigh.

"That's what I said."

"Okay."

The easy capitulation should perhaps have surprised Dietrich, but in this case it didn't. The approval shining at him from the hard eyes under the brim of the ridiculous bush hat did. He was tempted to ask Troy what kind of monster he thought Dietrich to be, that it should be such a shock for the German to propose a humanitarian truce. He didn't ask it because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear Troy's answer.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the letter he'd prepared the night before and handed it over to Troy along with his writing pen. Troy looked over it. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'your English is better than mine!' Troy signed it and returned it to him. He snapped a salute and Dietrich returned it automatically. Before he had time to return -the paper to his pocket Troy had jumped back into his jeep and the Americans tore off in a suitably dramatic rooster-tail of dust.

Dietrich shook his head, coming out of his memory of three days before and returning to the present as Troy roared up. Dietrich rose in his seat and peered closely. Troy's jaw was clenched, he was glaring, and he looked to be in a towering rage. Young Hitchcock was pale about the lips and appeared angry as well. Before Dietrich could ask what had happened, a third vehicle joined the party, parking at an angle to them. The little Frenchman La Due who'd been working with the Swiss medical teams stepped from the car. He looked distraught.

''What on Earth-" Before Dietrich could finish his question, Troy interrupted.

'We had a truce, Dietrich!"

''Yes, I know. I proposed it-"

Troy cut in again. ''Then what the hell were you doing going into Rasa and stealing the serum? Wrecking the aid station? Kidnapping Miss Arno?"

Dietrich stared at him. Troy didn't look any more insane than he usually did. Not sunstroke, then. He looked over at La Due, The little man was wringing his hands and appeared to be about to suffer from heart failure. Dietrich could feel the pressure building up behind his eyes. Wunderbar. Not only did he have to deal with the Rat Patrol, he had a sneaking suspicion he knew precisely who was behind the flagrant violation of the truce he'd constructed. The SS didn't believe in humanitarian aid. He didn't think they believed in humanity in any form. He took a deep breath.

"Sergeant Troy, I had nothing to do with what happened at the Rasa village!" It came out closer to a shout than he would have liked, but at least Troy calmed down slightly.

"It happened."

Belligerently stating the obvious. As usual. Dietrich pointed out, ''Those were SS, not Wehrmacht soldiers."

"Tell it to the people who'll die of typhus." Also as usual, pronouncing the unanswerable.

Dietrich gritted his teeth. Once again, he would have to clean up a mess. At least this time it wasn't the Rat Patrol causing it. "How much time do I have?"

La Due waffled. Troy crossed his arms over his chest and glared up at Dietrich.

"Twelve hours."

Not bothering to ask how Troy knew off the top of his head exactly how long the serum would last before it became unusable, Dietrich concentrated on a much more onerous task.

Attempting to talk sense into an SS officer.

It was difficult dealing with the Fuehrer’s pet dogs even in an official capacity. This situation was much trickier. He spent most of the hour it took to track down the SS group trying to figure out how the hell he could pull of the return of the serum and the rescue of the nurse while still retaining his honor and not getting shot. He'd met this particular SS man only once, at divisional headquarters a week or so before, and he had not been impressed.

He hadn't come up with a plan by the time he saw the trucks. Taking a deep breath, he put on his calmest expression and decided to play it by ear. Since he'd first encountered the Rat Patrol, he'd become rather adept at it.

"Hauptsturmfiihrer Wansee. I'm afraid I must ask you to release the prisoners and the serum." The opening made up in forthrightness for what it lacked in finesse. Since he had no better ideas, Dietrich decided he might as well try the direct approach and see if this one was as psychotic as most SS officers he'd had the misfortune to meet.

"Truly, I appreciate your position, Captain. But you must understand. I have a job to do." The initially sincere-sounding plea degenerated with depressing dispatch into a rant that confirmed Dietrich's lowest expectations. Wansee was indeed mad as a hatter.

La Due attempted to intervene, protesting that Arno was a Swiss neutral. From Wansee's immediate reaction, it was the wrong tack to take. The man practically foamed at the mouth.

"There are no neutrals in war!"

Dietrich had had enough. This was getting them nowhere. Time was running out and tact had never been his strong suit. 'Which war, Captain? The African desert campaign or your own private war?"

Wansee was not to be stopped, however. He was no more impressed with Dietrich than Dietrich was impressed by him. "I am not interested in your philosophy, Hauptmann Dietrich."

He then embarked on another, progressively more disjointed discourse on what Arno must know about the Allies, and how he was going to ensure that she told him, that he had ways to make her cooperate. Dietrich was unwillingly imagining some of those ways when the nurse's Arab helper Hassam made an incredibly brave, and even more stupid, attempt to escape.

At Wansee's order, two of his men pulled the Arab from the driver's seat of the truck and dragged him over to stand in front of a now fuming Wansee. Dietrich clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, knowing what was to come and unable to do a thing to prevent it.

Wansee leveled his pistol as if he was taking shooting practice and executed Hassam with a single shot.

Arno tried to run to his aid, but the other SS men took her arms and threw her to the ground. Dietrich's mind raced furiously, seeking a way to salvage the situation before it got completely out of hand.

Wansee stared at the corpse for a long moment, his face unreadable, then screamed, 'We have no choice!" His words died away into an incoherent mumble before he climbed down from his perch and walked over to look up into Dietrich's face. Dietrich controlled the shudder that tried to climb up his spine with iron determination. He had to play along or he would end up as dead as Hassam. But it was sickening: Wansee was flirting with him.

Lowering his voice from his previous near-howl, Wansee crooned, "Captain, I do not enjoy the look of fear and hatred on the faces of the people, as though I was some kind of monster."

Dietrich carefully controlled his nod of agreement that Wansee was indeed some kind of monster, and maintained a slightly interested, calm expression. It was a struggle.

"But we cannot all be dashing soldiers."

That, perhaps more than anything Wansee had done up to that point, convinced Dietrich that the Hauptsturmfiihrer was totally psychotic. "I understand," he answered gently, not allowing his apprehension to show.

Wansee smiled at him, a truly repulsive expression. "It grieves me to deprive the people of the services of Miss Arno. Captain, it occurred to me that we might strike a bargain."

This didn't surprise Dietrich since he'd seen it coming a mile away. He only hoped the bargain wouldn't compromise him completely or cause the slaughter of innocent civilians. "Perhaps we could."

Wansee beamed at him and climbed into the passenger seat, crowding him.

Dietrich watched him with the caution of a man eyeing a viper. He did his best to maintain a stony exterior. He was sure that Wansee could smell any sign of weakness, and he'd use it against Dietrich without hesitation. 'What kind of a bargain did you have in mind?"

"As you know, this whole area is infested with these desert scavengers." Wansee actually sounded sane for a moment. "Perhaps we might engineer a trade? Surely they would have far more interesting things to reveal than Miss Arno."

The high-pitched snigger that accompanied the suggestion gave lie to any indication of sanity. Dietrich forced a small laugh, playing for time. The gears were turning in his brain. There had to be a way to make this work.

"Captain, how do you propose that we arrange this deal?" Perhaps he could get Wansee to form his own noose, then Dietrich could hang him with it. As usual, his luck was not that good.

"That is your problem, Captain," Wansee told him merrily. Of course it was.

His mind raced, and by the time the car arrived back in the village, he had the bare outline of a plan. There was a great element of risk to all involved, but then there always was with a rabid SS psychotic in the picture. As they pulled up to the makeshift hospital headquarters, Dietrich turned to La Due and told him quietly, "Find the nearest member of the Rat Patrol you see. Tell him you have a Resistance leader with you and lure him here to me. If you fail or betray my presence, Miss Arno will die. Understood?" A brief pause for a comprehending nod, then, "Okay," and he gestured for the man to go to his task.

Moments later a familiar lanky figure ducked into the car. Dietrich had the barrel of his handgun under Moffitt's chin before the Englishman could react.

"Don't make a sound, Sergeant." Moffitt's expression froze, but he obeyed the order without protest. Dietrich glanced back once, seeing a beehive of activity. He recognized Troy's hat and Hitchcock's bright red cap, so good a target but so hard to hit, and smiled inwardly. Now it was up to La Due to crack and Dietrich himself to finish the job.

Hopefully before either Moffitt or Arno was murdered by a madman.

Less than a mile out of town, a dispatcher on a motorcycle with a sidecar waited.

Dietrich had his driver stop the car. Holding the gun steadily on the captive, he had his driver tie Moffitt's hands securely behind his back and place him in the passenger seat.

"I'll make the prisoner exchange, Erich. Return to camp, take four men back to the village with you, and prepare the hospital to begin dispensing vaccinations when the serum is returned."

"Jawohl," his driver answered, jumping into the sidecar and roaring off. Dietrich turned back to the car and settled into the driver's seat. He could feel Moffitt staring at him, but he didn't say a word.

The heat rose swiftly the further they went into the dunes, and Dietrich stopped the car an hour into the drive. Pulling out a canteen he swallowed a deep draught. Extending it toward Moffitt, he was displeased when the other man obstinately turned his head away.

"Don't be a fool," Dietrich growled. "You'll need your strength." He reached out again, and Moffitt tilted his chin up, mouth clamped shut. Dietrich sighed. Moffitt was as pig-headed as Troy. No surprise they should get on so well. "You can either drink it voluntarily," he explained patiently, "or I will pour it down your throat. All right?"

Moffitt glared at him but opened his mouth. Dietrich carefully tipped the canteen, watching until Moffitt had enough, then capped it and put it back on the seat between them. He put the car in gear and resumed their journey.

"Thank you," Moffitt said grudgingly twenty minutes later.

"Of course." At least they retained a veneer of civility. Even in the middle of hell. 'Where are we going?" Careful disinterest in Moffitt's voice; shrewd sharp eyes giving the lie to it. Dietrich glanced into the rearview mirror. No sign of pursuit yet. That wasn't good.

"To retrieve the serum for the villagers," he answered shortly. "And what am I?"

"Payment."

Conversation ceased.

A short time later Dietrich began to deliberately push the engine. Usually a stupid thing to do in the full heat of the desert sun, but he'd hoped by then to have a sighting of the rest of the Rat Patrol. Since he didn't, he had to find a way to ensure that they found their way to the exchange site. His timing was excellent. The radiator began to steam as they reached a fork in the road.

Dietrich expected Moffitt to attempt escape, so the engine covering slamming into his skull wasn't a complete surprise. It still stunned him slightly. He shook off the momentary ringing in his ears and heaved himself up, catching Moffitt under the jaw with a right cross and knocking him up and over the bonnet of the car. The Rat was still half-unconscious when Dietrich picked him up and stuffed him back in the passenger seat.

Returning to his task, he carefully hung the water bag pointing in the direction he wished his pursuers to take. Hopefully the clue wouldn't be too subtle. Sending a brief prayer up that Troy wouldn't get too clever for his own good and end up taking the wrong road, Dietrich ignored the headache radiating from the lump on the head Moffitt had given him and set out for the rendezvous with Wansee.

He'd seen the sentry on the ridge, so he wasn't surprised that the SS group was waiting for him. He saluted, mildly irritated to have his proper salute returned with the standard Fuehrer arm-thrust. The Hitler salute had always reminded him of would-be gladiators, and especially when given by weedy specimens such as Wansee, it seemed exceedingly inappropriate. Not being a stupid or suicidal man, Dietrich kept his opinion to himself.

Two of the SS foot soldiers pulled Moffitt from the car and dragged him over to stand, slumped and swaying, in front of the Hauptsturmfiihrer. The man was almost salivating. 'What have we here?"

Moffitt, ever the stoic, ignored him. Dietrich cleared his throat almost silently, stepping in before Wansee could lose his composure and shoot Moffitt before Dietrich could get the drugs and the aid worker away safely.

"This is my end of the bargain, Captain," he announced. "Sergeant Moffitt of the Rat Patrol."

Wansee showed unseemly glee at the capture. "A scavenger. Truly a desert scavenger? A member of the Rat Patrol?"

Moffitt, either through stubbornness or still dazed from landing on his head, continued to ignore him. Dietrich winced, knowing what would come next. Wansee, unfortunately, didn't surprise him.

"I am talking to you." What began as a command escalated quickly to a screaming whine. "I am talking to you!"

As expected, his temper quickly got the better of him and he began to hit Moffitt.

Dietrich glanced around quickly, hoping Troy would get there soon, before Wansee lost what little was left of his sanity. No promising dust clouds showed themselves. Dietrich took a step forward, diverting Wansee's attention from Moffitt, who would have collapsed but for the soldiers holding him upright.

Keeping his tone as gentle as possible, but not subservient, one officer to another, Dietrich disguised an order as a request. "Captain, if you don't mind, I would like to leave with the woman and the serum." He intensified his stare, hoping to penetrate Wansee's mad haze. "Now."

Wansee barely noticed. "Perhaps in a few days, Captain. That is if the lady can survive the interrogation." He kept staring at Moffitt. "Into the truck with him!"

The headache Dietrich had been ignoring pounded through his temples, and he could feel his teeth grinding together. Struggling to maintain his own temper, close to losing it, he barked, 'Wansee, as a member of the SS you are supposed to have a sense of honor. As you recall, we concluded the bargain."

Not that he held out much hope that such an appeal would help, but it was the best he could do for the moment. Wansee proved himself as lacking in honor as he was in sanity.

"It is fair in war. It is all fair in war." He repeated himself and began to pound on the side of the half-track, his tirade growing louder and wilder with each repetition.

Dietrich shouted in a controlled, irritated manner, trying to break through the tantrum. "For Heaven's sake, man, think about your sanity as a human being! Think! Think!"

That, perhaps, had been the wrong strategy. Wansee stopped gibbering and shrieked, "You will leave me!" Then he turned and revealed a loaded, cocked pistol pointed directly at Dietrich's chest. There was nothing but triumphant madness in the blank eyes. No humanity, no reasoning at all.

Knowing when he had reached the limits of his options, Dietrich watched Wansee with the attention he'd give a rabid wolf and retreated back to his car. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back in instinctive reaction to his desire to throttle the crazy bastard, knowing if he gave in to the impulse the soldiers around him would shoot him dead before his hands could touch Wansee's throat.

He watched in the mirror as Wansee turned back to his men, then accelerated away from the small cluster of trucks. Out of sight of the group and the sentry, Dietrich circled behind a ridge directly east of the truck where he could see the supplies and Arno. He retrieved a rifle from the boot of the car and steadied it along the roof, sighting down into the makeshift camp. As he watched, two of the SS soldiers muscled Moffitt up into the back of the truck, dumping him on the bench beside the nurse.

Moments after he left, all hell broke loose. Wansee was treated to the full fury of the Rat Patrol in rescue mode. The SS men scattered, most falling dead as the two jeeps attacked. Dietrich tensed as he saw Wansee dive away from the main area of attack, heading toward the back of the truck. Wansee's gun was drawn and he was reaching for the steps up into the truck. Dietrich saw movement inside and watched through his rifle sight as Moffitt drew himself up to place himself between Wansee and Arno.

Dietrich squeezed the rifle trigger once. Wansee's body jerked, then crumpled over the steps before he could shoot Moffitt.

One fewer mad dog to sully the ranks of the German fighting forces, he thought sourly. Moments after Wansee died, Troy and his other two men ran around to the back of the truck. Dietrich watched Troy kick the body out of the way and help Moffitt down. Assured that Wansee was, in fact, dead, Dietrich replaced his rifle in the car and started to leave. Glancing over a last time, he saw Troy looking directly at his position. Dietrich found himself smiling. Honor satisfied, knowing the Rat Patrol would ensure that the serum and Arno would make it back to Rasa, he headed back to his own encampment.

~~~

"There's got to be a way to get him off my back!"

Familiar exasperation colored Troy's voice as he bitched about Dietrich. Moffitt leaned a shoulder against the side of the Jeep and put on his most sympathetic 'listening' face. 'What's he done this time?"

"He's in the way!"

Moffitt allowed an eyebrow to rise.

"I'm trying to pull a buddy's butt outta the fire, but Dietrich's messing it up." The brow lowered, and Troy responded to his cue with a more full explanation. "A friend of mine in the ass was s'posed to retrieve this scientist from the Jerries. He made it to Bir Nahib, but my buddy got shot up and couldn't make the meet. I told him I'd do it, and he got a message through, so the guy he's rescuing will go with me-but only with me. He won't trust anybody else."

'What's so important about this scientist?" Hitch broke in, saving Moffitt the trouble.

"He's got information on something called the Rotkapchen." Moffitt winced at the mangled pronunciation, but Troy didn't notice and continued. "Some kind of anti-tank missile. Anyway, we need the guy in one piece."

"And Dietrich is getting in your way." Moffitt didn't say 'as usual' but he knew Troy heard it, judging by the wry look he received from the leader of their little band.

"Not officially, but he's always there. Watching. I tried twice to approach, and both times had to back off before Dietrich saw me. We're running out of time."

A sudden thought struck Moffitt, and he ignored the conversation to examine it, as Troy went into colorful detail of what he'd like to do to Dietrich. Nothing lethal, all of it painful, not to mention incapacitating for several hours. A memory of tea with a lovely gentleman not long before he joined the Rat Patrol surfaced, and Moffitt put it together with whispers he'd heard about a particular few tank commanders earlier that year. He smiled, then wiped it off before it could widen and cause suspicion.

When there was a break in the steady stream of complaint, he told Troy mildly, "I might be able to lend a hand."

"How?" Bright blue eyes skewered him.

"Hauptmann Dietrich and I have a mutual acquaintance. An officer named Rommel."

Those blue eyes now resembled dinner plates. Troy did a double take. "The Desert Fox?" He actually whispered. It was rather adorable. Moffitt quashed the thought before it could blossom. His smile, however, refused to stay suppressed.

"No. His younger brother." Troy was agog, but Moffitt, ever the gentleman when he wasn't mad with grief, refused to say further beyond, "He's an engineer." Bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand, he asked, 'When and for what duration do you need Dietrich to be indisposed?"

Troy gave him a searching look, but he simply smiled innocently. Eventually, Troy gave up.

"Oh two hundred to oh four hundred Saturday."

The still of the night. Perfect. "It will be my pleasure," he assured Troy easily. "But you'll have to complete the retrieval without me. I'll ensure Dietrich is no threat to the mission."

Troy nodded. Like any good commander when he really didn't need to know, he didn't ask. Moffitt appreciated the restraint.

~~~

If his aberrant behavior continued much longer, his men would begin to wonder about him. Dietrich stared down at the appalling camel piss that passed for beer in the glorified water hole calling itself a town, and watched his prey from the corner of his eye. He had nothing concrete with which to back up his suspicion, but over the months his radar, when it came to the Rat Patrol, had been honed to a fine instrument. Regarding Monsieur Barseau, he didn't believe it was mere happenstance that would take the man within reach of Troy's little gang.

He sighed and glared balefully into his flat weak beer. He had been made to look the fool too often by the Rat Patrol. He'd lost secret documents, medical supplies, tanks, radar stations, even entire encampments to the bastards. He'd even come close, once, to hanging Troy, much as he'd discovered he really didn't wish to do so. His concern had been moot. The Rat Patrol had outwitted him. Again.

His superiors were starting to question his fitness to command. If he brought unsubstantiated fears to them and nothing happened, or worse yet the Rat Patrol managed to pull off another dazzling feat of infiltration and espionage right under his nose, the SS wouldn't have to shoot him. He might as well shoot himself.

He heaved another, deeper sigh. A glance at the wall clock confirmed that it was barely twenty one hundred hours and he still had six more to go before the establishment closed and he could end his watch. Before he could sink into gloom, his morose thoughts were interrupted by the thump of a magnum of inferior champagne beside his elbow on the bar.

"I didn't order this." The beer was awful enough. He wasn't sure his palate would survive this further insult.

"My apologies for the quality of the offering," a smooth British voice came from behind him. He froze on the stool. "I didn't know your preference, but this was the best the house could offer."

Schooling his face carefully to maintain his trademark expressionless mask, he looked over his shoulder. Sergeant Moffitt was patiently watching him. Dietrich squinted up at him distrustfully.

'Why?" He didn't bother asking where the rest of the motley crew were. They'd no doubt show up soon.

"Services rendered." For an instant, Moffitt's normal insouciance dropped away, and Dietrich read appreciation and warmth in the Englishman's eyes. A hint of a smile touched his mouth. ''True, you tossed me on my arse over the bonnet of your auto, but you also kept a mad dog from finishing me off."

Understanding flooded him. Troy wasn't the only one who'd realized who put Wansee down. Dietrich nodded.

'Would you care to join me?" After all, it was only fair to inflict the gift on the giver.

If he was going to be verkatert from drinking this crap, he wouldn't be alone.

"_Danke schoën_," Moffitt told him. Dietrich winced. Moffitt either didn't notice or didn't care. He poured two glasses of the bubbly slop and handed one to Dietrich. "Wenn ich Dich nicht hatte ... "

Dietrich couldn't quite control his stunned look. Surely Moffitt hadn't meant that in the way it had sounded. It was improbably affectionate. He blinked, then slowly raised his glass to touch it lightly to the side of Moffitt's upraised glass.

"Prost," he responded wryly, "but perhaps we should continue our conversation in English. I speak your language better than you speak mine."

Moffitt looked torn between laughter and offense. "Didn't want to put you in the soup with your fellows should anyone be listening."

"It's neutral territory," Dietrich shrugged, swallowing most of the glass in one gulp, trying to shoot it past his tongue without the liquid actually touching it. He wasn't quite successful and was surprised to find the taste not as objectionable as he'd feared. Too sweet and too raw, but not undrinkable. Marginally better than the beer.

They sat in silence for nearly half an hour, drinking, smoking, occasionally glancing at one another. Dietrich had a sneaking suspicion Moffitt was there more to winkle out of him the reason for his unusual inhabitancy of the bar than to show his thanks for Dietrich saving his life, so he made his continued surveillance of Barseau as unobtrusive as possible. Moffitt didn't appear to mind the silence.

When conversation began, it was delightfully mundane. Nothing of the war, nothing of tanks or troop movements or weapons specifications. In short, nothing suspicious, nothing that would indicate Moffitt was attempting to extract information from Dietrich. They spoke of archeology, ancient history, local customs and flea eradication. Various uses of olive oil and Arabian music. An hour later the bottle was nearly empty and Dietrich was more relaxed than he had been in months.

Silence fell, a calm pool unlike the tension of the first silence between them. Moffitt cleared his throat, then straightened on his stool. The cynical voice in the back of Dietrich's mind that had kept him alive for fourteen years in the German army whispered, 'here it comes.'

It was not what he expected.

"I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. Oberstleutnant Rommel would no doubt send his regards, if he knew we were here together."

Dietrich stilled, glancing at Moffitt then looking away. Perhaps Moffitt had known what he was doing with his original toast. Dietrich licked his lips unconsciously. What he was considering, seriously considering, could get him shot. Noting the way Moffitt fidgeted with his glass, Dietrich knew the trepidation was mutual. Swallowing the last of his flat champagne, he poured another, carefully not looking at his drinking companion as he spoke.

"How was Oberst Rommel when last you spoke?"

"Happy," Moffitt answered softly. "Considering the circumstances." Dietrich glanced over to find Moffitt staring intently at him. "Pfirsich told me the Luftwaffe were treating him exceedingly well."

Dietrich grinned, briefly. "So I've heard."

He stared into his glass, made a decision, and drank it dry, wrinkling his nose only slightly at the taste. Exposure had numbed him to it, for the most part. 'Would you care to continue this conversation in private?" After all, nothing had happened in all the time he'd been watching Barseau. If anything happened tonight, he was too fuzzy to do anything about it anyway. Besides, it wasn't often a ripe peach dropped in his lap, and he was hungry.

"I have a room upstairs." Moffitt's hand brushed his as he picked up the bottle.

Dietrich put his hand out, fingers settling over Moffitt's, hidden from public view between their bodies and the bottle.

"It's almost empty." Removing his hold slowly, Dietrich looked over at the Arab barman studiously ignoring them. ''Whiskey, if you have it." He managed not to make it an insult, but it was a near thing. He reached for his pocketbook, and Moffitt interrupted.

"My treat," he suggested.

Dietrich shook his head. ''You're paying for the room."

Moffitt smiled at him, and Dietrich found himself smiling back.

Whiskey, or a liquid that vaguely resembled it and had the kick of a mule, in hand, Dietrich followed Moffitt upstairs. Survival instincts, belated but strong, made him check the crowd one last time. There was no sign of the Rat Patrol, other than the Rat he was following into a temporary den of iniquity. No one anywhere near Barseau. No hint of trouble anywhere. As dead boring as the last eight nights he'd sat fruitless watch.

Lust, and a strong dose of bad champagne and worse beer, combined to convince Dietrich that it was time to forget the war for a little while and live in the moment. The moment hit him as soon as the door closed behind him.

All that fine English restraint disappeared as soon as Moffitt had Dietrich alone.

Hands framed his face, long fingers splayed along his cheekbones and temples, as Moffitt held him still and kissed him. Too long with no contact other than in combat nearly betrayed Dietrich into punching the other man, but sanity, or perhaps the opposite of same, interceded. Instead of his fists, he met the pseudo-attack with open arms and an open mouth.

Beneath the cheap wine, Moffitt tasted of spearmint and tobacco. If he'd heard his own moan, Dietrich might have been embarrassed, but he was too involved in meeting Moffitt's advance with his own to notice. His hands came up, pressing the length of the strong arms pinning him against the door, palming the shoulders, sliding along the bunched muscles at the top of Moffitt's back, cupping the nape of his neck and grasping him tightly. Dietrich's eyes closed, the better to feel what was happening; giving up any claim to reality, the better to experience the insanity.

It had been much too long.

Then Moffitt's hands were retreating from his face and attacking his buttons, and his own hands were getting in the way, attempting to do the same to Moffitt. The friendly rivalry ended abruptly when Moffitt latched onto the side of his neck and started to suck the skin there, effectively sending all Dietrich's blood rushing to his groin, leaving his brain temporarily paralyzed and causing his coordination to evaporate. By the time he could breathe again, Moffitt's mouth had left his neck to explore his chest, and Dietrich's hands were scrabbling at the wooden door, trying to find a hold before his knees gave out.

"Bed?" he croaked, fighting to keep his balance. Moffitt paused in the act of unzipping his fly, and Dietrich couldn't quite hold back his groan of disappointment.

"Bloody well right," Moffitt informed him, his voice as choked as Dietrich's felt.

Then those talented hands were guiding him across the room, and they were kissing again, and he finally got Moffitt's shirt off him, only to be stymied by an undershirt.

Unsure whether his dizziness was caused by alcohol, heat, lack of oxygen, lust, or a combination of all four, Dietrich growled and grabbed hold of the undershirt, ripping it from neck to hem as he lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. Caught by the unbreakable hold on the tattered remains of his vest, Moffitt followed him down, barely managing to catch himself with his hands on either side of Dietrich's waist before landing on him. The position was fortuitous to the lust-addled portion of Dietrich's brain, since it tangled their legs together and brought their erections into contact.

They made short work of trousers and underpants with the incentive that single touch provided. They moved together in an instinctive rhythm that escalated rapidly into frantic need. The first time Dietrich climaxed was much sooner than he would have hoped. Fortunately for what remained of his dignity, Moffitt wasn't far behind.

Lying there, wound together in a tangle of limbs, with sweat and semen splashed between them, Dietrich felt oddly peaceful. He'd had nothing but death and destruction for months. This mind-destroying pleasure was a welcome change. It was good to simply drift, exhausted and sated, hearing heartbeats instead of exploding shells, smelling musk instead of blood, the weight of his enemy holding him in place, feeling decidedly comfortable.

Then Moffitt kissed him again, and he realized his exhaustion was temporary as his body reacted with gratifying swiftness. Long stretches of celibacy ended explosively. The second time, Moffitt used his hands on Dietrich, touching him in places he rarely even touched himself. By the time Dietrich had surrendered to his climax, Moffitt was almost whimpering, and it was the work of a moment to bring him relief.

It tasted infinitely better than the champagne.

They slept for a little while after that. It was still and dark when Dietrich awoke.

The present was overlaid with the past for a hazy moment, and he nuzzled against the soft dark hair at the nape of the man sleeping beside him.

"Breach," he whispered, still caught up in a dream that had taken him back to the last man who'd shared pleasure with him. A man who'd turned his back on him, walked out and left him, Catholic guilt eating him up inside at what they'd done together.

"Eh?" came the equally drowsy reply.

Dietrich blinked, shaking the dream-haze from his head, smiling ruefully into Moffitt's confused face as he rolled over to face Dietrich. "Sorry. Wrong brunet." Moffitt opened his mouth to ask the question Dietrich knew was coming. Before he could get the words out, Dietrich effectively aborted the conversation by kissing him.

Moffitt was quite willing to be diverted. This time it was Dietrich who had the pleasure of being coaxed and teased and swallowed by an eager mouth. This time, as well, one of the uses of olive oil they hadn't mentioned in their earlier conversation was introduced. Face buried in the pillow to muffle his cries, Dietrich couldn't help but be thankful that the previous occupant of the room had apparently been Italian.

He fell asleep with a residual ache in his hindquarters, a smile on his face, and Moffitt plastered along his back, snoring lightly. For one of the very few times since arriving in Africa, Dietrich didn't mind the heat.

The pounding head that greeted him when he awoke the next morning he was expecting, along with the taste on his tongue that convinced him something had died in his mouth the night before. The ropes were an unwelcome surprise. So was the chair to which the ropes bound him. Tightly.

Staring blearily down at his own midriff, then the fabric of his undershorts over his lap upon which rested his tied wrists, followed by two bony knees and ropes around his ankles, he didn't at first understand what had happened. Then Moffitt, fully rigged out and looking disgustingly chipper, if one discounted the bags beneath his eyes, cleared his throat. Dietrich glared up at him, pulling ineffectually at the ropes holding him securely in place tied to the unforgiving hard wooden chair.

'Why?" he asked, more angry than hurt or disappointed. Angry at himself, in fact.

Once again, the verdammt Rat Patrol had made a fool of him. Only this time he'd been an enthusiastic participant in his own downfall.

'We do what we must," Moffitt told him briskly.

"Including whoring yourself?" Dietrich spat at him. Moffitt shook his head.

"Oh, no. Last night was incredible. It's the tying-up-and-leaving part that's unavoidable. "

"Dir hat man wohl ins Gehim geschissen und vergessen umzuruhren!" Realizing that screaming at the man that he'd lost his mind wouldn't help his case, Dietrich took a deep breath and tried to be reasonable. "You cannot leave me here like this."

Moffitt stared at him for a moment, then shook himself like a dog ridding itself of excess water. "No," he agreed slowly. "I don't suppose I can."

Taking several steps forward, slowly at first then more quickly, Moffitt stopped in front of him and leaned down. He caught Dietrich's chin in his hand and kissed him as hungrily as he had the night before. Before Dietrich could regain his equilibrium and bite the bastard, Moffitt released him. Both men were breathing heavily.

"Farewell, then," Moffitt told him softly. ''You can't take it personally, you know. There is a war on, after all."

He dropped an object in Dietrich's lap and left the room hurriedly. Pausing at the door, he said without looking back, ''The room is rented for the rest of the day. You have until fifteen hundred hours before anyone comes looking." Then he closed the door firmly behind him, pulling it to so that the latch caught and locked.

Dietrich stared at the closed door, caught between laughter and screaming invective. Contenting himself. with muttering curses under his breath, he looked down to see with what parting gift Moffitt had left him. Gleaming against the rope binding his wrists was an army dagger. His own.

Laughter won out over screaming by a hair.

~~~

Moffitt was balanced on the bonnet of his Jeep eating breakfast when the second Jeep roared to a stop beside him. Troy looked jubilant, hopping down from the back of the vehicle before it had finished spraying sand. Moffitt looked questioningly at him.

"Mission accomplished! Made contact, grabbed the guy and whisked him right out from under the Germans' noses to safety at HQ." He propped a hip against Moffitt's perch, leaning close, inviting confidence. "So, how'd you pull it oft? How'd you get Dietrich out of the way long enough for us to carry out the mission? Tie him up and stuff him in a footlocker?"

Trying to ignore the enticing mental image Troy's words evoked and hoping the sponge bath he'd taken had eliminated the evidence of his recent activities, Moffitt did his best to appear innocent. He said simply, "I ignored your advice. I took it personally."

Troy looked askance at him, but ever the gentleman, Moffitt would say nothing more. Then a shell whistled through the air, he threw himself one direction and Troy went another, breakfast was abandoned and life continued as usual.

~~~

A few months after his unexpected tryst with the enemy, Dietrich mused that at the rate he was going, by the end of the African campaign he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between his enemies and his allies. His reverie was broken by his adjutant informing him that they had visitors. Combing back his hair and straightening his shirt, Dietrich turned to greet the two men stepping into his tent. His expression froze when he saw the double lightning bolts on their collars. His last confrontation with the SS had not been pleasant.

"Standartenfiihrer Ulbricht," the stocky Untersturmfiihrer introduced his superior.

Dietrich saluted, wondering vaguely why the colonel looked familiar, or if all SS officers were poured from the same mold. The crisp salute he received in return surprised him a little. Bright blue eyes stared intently at him. He frowned back.

"Hauptmann Dietrich. Generaloberst Rommel has told me good things of you." "I am honored," Dietrich answered, referring to his mentor's opinion, since he'd never cared much one way or the other what the SS thought.

"I look forward to our working together." The stare softened and turned genial.

Dietrich's neck itched. His instincts told him that nothing good would come of this meeting.

He sent Ulbricht an inquisitive look. "I haven't received such orders, Colonel." Ulbricht smiled at him. The itch intensified.

"That is for the morning, my dear captain. It is late; I'm content to merely introduce myself to you. Tomorrow at oh seven hundred I will brief you on the details of our combined duties."

Lovely, Dietrich mentally snarled, as he nodded with forced respect, saluted and watched Ulbricht exit the tent as abruptly as he'd entered it. Dietrich sighed, mentally cursing his luck. Just what he needed in the middle of a full-out harassment campaign by the Rat Patrol... the SS harassing him from the other side. Hassle every direction he turned, and him with a supply line to protect. He was still seeking the cause for his presentiment of trouble when he fell asleep.

~~~

Ulbricht stared across the expanse of the desert he despised, mulling over the measure of the man he had met. His spies who had survived had provided him with excellent detail on the raid that had killed his nephew but no concrete proof. Not that Wansee was much of a loss, slavering incompetent that he'd been. Still, the boy had been his sister's child, and family honor did count for something.

While he hadn't been able to gather enough evidence to take Dietrich back to Berlin and have him charged with murder and treason, he had enough for his own conviction. It had taken him time and careful planning, but he had the contacts and he had the power. Soon, he would have the justice he sought as well.

Dietrich had shamed the boy, then murdered him. The same would now be true for the Wehrmacht captain. Rommel's time was nearly up; seeds were being sown to convince the Fiihrer of the Desert Fox's treachery. Those who so clearly owed their allegiance to him, such as this Dietrich, would have no protection when he was gone. But Ulbricht wouldn't wait until the Fuhrer moved before taking his own vengeance. There were those who would pay for the privilege, and still others who were ripe for the blame.

He had a professional stake in the situation as well. He'd promised the Fuhrer before he left Berlin that he would personally see to eradicating the pests who were decimating their supply convoys, as none of the Wehrmacht had been able to do. Melding professional and personal objectives made this a uniquely satisfying mission.

An Arab approached him, moving quietly over the sand. Ulbricht had been watching for him and was prepared.

"Ensure that he is never seen again."

"He will be gone tonight." The Arab raised a hand, and four figures detached themselves from the shadows, moving toward the darkened command tent.

"He suffers before he dies." He'd better. They were being paid enough. ''You will see to that."

The Arab nodded once, teeth gleaming in a leer across the dark face. "As you wish." The gold was heavy in his palm as he handed it over to the slave trader. A filthy business, with a pleasant aftertaste. Ulbricht waved him away, watching as the shadows came forth again from the tent, a fifth form adding bulk to their little group. Ulbricht smiled and turned back to his own tent to get some well-deserved rest. He had to be fresh in the morning. He had a performance to give.

Shortly before dawn the Rat Patrol played directly into his hands. Acting on information Ulbricht had made certain they would get, they hit the camp hard, aiming for supplies tents that didn't actually exist. In the midst of the attack, it was easy for Ulbricht to duck into Dietrich's tent and slice through the back canvas.

"Here!" he screamed as soon as he'd stowed away his knife. Three of Dietrich's soldiers tumbled in through the front flap, looking about wildly for their commander. "An American! He knocked Hauptmann Dietrich unconscious and kidnapped him! After them!"

Of course, they returned empty-handed. By the end of the raid, not only were the Rat Patrol empty handed, but they'd also collared the blame for Dietrich's disappearance. An entirely satisfactory conclusion to his excursion. He could go back to Berlin and forget that Africa even existed, and the sooner, the better, from his perspective.

Taking command of the camp, he turned the search for their beloved Hauptmann over to Dietrich's second-in-command. Oberleutnant Frevert would lead an all-out campaign against the Rat Patrol, and Dietrich would soon be dead. Ulbricht would stay until the Rat Patrol was eradicated. At that time he would regretfully inform the High Command that Hauptmann Dietrich was a casualty and that the problem of the raids had been settled. The Fuehrer would be pleased. Rommel would not.

Excellent results. For Ulbricht.

~~~

Dietrich had slept lightly, but he was still taken by surprise. A rag was stuffed in his mouth and his hands were bound behind his back before he was completely awake. He kicked out desperately, trying to break his captors' grip, but a blow to the head rendered him half-conscious. He was still groggy as he was tossed over the back of a horse. Pounding off into the desert, his head bouncing against the horse's ribs, air being driven out of his lungs with each jolt, he gradually got dizzier until everything faded to black.

Impact with the sand woke him up again. His head ached. He could see nothing but black night with a blanket of stars that wavered as his vision faded in and out. A shadow stooped over him, blocking out the sky, and his eyes widened. He knew that face.

Memories crowded out the present. A long hike under the blazing sun chained like a dog with no water and the continual rambling of Troy buzzing in his ears. No water, his tongue lying like a dry stone in his mouth. A fire, fingers in his hair pulling his head back, black eyes bright with anticipation staring down into his. The cold air over his skin as the slaver rubbed against him, bruising his arms where he was held, tearing his trousers, the sticky splatter of fluid across the small of his back. Muttered words of appreciation and greed, how much gold his body would bring them, how profit was the only protection keeping him from rape.

Images flashed forward, the next day, and escape. The Arab taunting him about the sweetness of his flesh, Troy stopping him from cutting the man's tongue out as he deserved. Threats ringing across the sand as he and Troy staggered away, telling Dietrich that the Arab would see him again, and would partake of all the pleasures of his body.

It would appear that the Arab was a man of his word. God damn him.

The promise returned to haunt him as the slaver reached down into Dietrich's trousers and fondled him roughly. Dietrich froze, seeing a knife flash past his face as it sliced downward. His shirt buttons fell away, his undershirt parted under the sharp blade, and he shivered as the night air touched his bare chest.

Arabic rumbled in his ear, praise and lust intermingled. More men came out of the darkness as the others joined their leader, callused hands wrenching at his belt, tugging his pants down to his ankles. The knife remained steady, just below his testicles, and in response Dietrich didn't dare move. If it had been possible he would have stopped breathing. The head slaver grinned nastily at him. Dietrich kept his mouth shut and tried not to think about what was being done to him.

Hands tugged and pushed at him, forcing him over onto his stomach. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the side, trying not to eat too much sand. The voices above him were excited now, exclaiming over the softness and pale color of his skin, the firmness of his buttocks. His teeth and eyes clenched tightly shut and he wished fiercely that he could faint.

No one was listening to his prayers.

They pawed at him, pulling his flesh this way and that. One of them spat on him, as the headman warned them against causing so much damage he could not be sold. His mind was still mulling over the implications of that statement when the first one entered him. The shock was almost as great as the pain, and he couldn't stop the scream that ripped from his throat. Laughter and encouragement followed on the heels of his cry.

His defilement appeared to be great sport for the onlookers. Numbness spread through his hips and up into his chest as the Arab pounded into him enthusiastically, mitigating somewhat the tearing pain in his arse. After the first scream he managed to hold the rest back, blood running down his chin from his bitten lip. His muffled groans were barely discernible over the panting of his rapist and the jeers of the audience. When the Arab finally bucked against him and climaxed, Dietrich tried to take a deep breath and ignore the fire searing his flesh.

The second one mounted him before he could begin to recover from the first. His world contracted to the pounding against and into his body, the gritty sand in his face, and the helpless moans of his own pain echoing in his ears. Long before they finished, he was granted his wish and lost consciousness.

~~~

Hitch didn't know who they'd managed to piss off, but somebody somewhere really had it out for them. Wheeling the jeep in a tight 360, squinting through the dust and shrapnel, gun booming non-stop in his ear, he plowed through the fourth fight in the last week.

The Rat Patrol hadn't started any of them.

Most of the krauts looked alike to him, but it seemed like the same ones kept cropping up lately. The one person he expected to see, Dietrich, wasn't around. The only thing he could figure was that the kraut commanders got tired of Dietrich all the time losing, and put somebody else in charge. Somebody with a real bad attitude and a grudge against the Rats.

Hitch wasn't used to being the hunted. He was much more comfortable as the hunter.

Sarge was yelling, but Hitch couldn't hear what he said. Then fire exploded under the axle and the jeep flipped. He was flying through the air, then rolling in sand, before the world stopped going around in circles. Looking up, he saw half a dozen rifle barrels all pointed at his face.

They looked six inches across. Each.

Before he could so much as swallow, they grabbed him up and tossed him in the back seat of a command car, pistol barrel nearly down his ear. Then they were tearing off one way, and the second Patrol jeep, Troy draped across the hood, went haring off the opposite direction. From where Hitch was sitting, craning his neck, it didn't look like Troy was moving.

"Shit," Hitch muttered, reluctantly turning back to face the front as the kraut beside him prodded him in the neck with his pistol

A dark-haired, blue-eyed man was glaring at him from the front seat like Hitch was something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Hitch glared back the best he could. He could count on the Sarge to come and get him, but that was only if the Sarge survived. He surreptitiously crossed his fingers in his lap. He had a feeling it was going to be a long wait, and even if it was a short one, it was going to damned well feel long.

He had an inkling how right he was when the first thing the krauts did was tie him to a chair in the middle of a tent, and the second thing they did was start whaling hell out of him before they even asked him his name. When they finally did start asking questions, none of them made any sense.

"Where is he?"

"What did you do with him?"

"Is he alive?"

Made it easy to answer with his name, rank and serial number, since he didn't know what the hell they were talking about. Until the dark-haired kraut who'd started it all off backhanded him so hard across the chops the chair fell over backward. With his lip split open and his jaw swelling up, he didn't even have to say that much.

Frustrated, the German who'd been yelling all the nonsense questions at him yanked the chair back upright and stalked out of the tent. Hitch watched him go, wondering not for the first time what the hell was going on. When the tent flap rose again, a middle-aged man in a black uniform with silver flashes stepped inside, and Hitch's belly flipped over. Just what he didn't need, SS nutcases starting in on him. He put on his most belligerent look, to cover the butterflies flying around in his stomach, and glared up at the SS officer.

Who smiled down at him, confusing the hell out of him yet again.

"They will ask their questions. I fear you have no choice but to plead ignorance." He leaned forward, crowding Hitch, and Hitch couldn't stop himself from cowering away. "Dietrich is far from here, undoubtedly dead by now. His men firmly believe you are responsible. He is in slavers' hands, and the Rat Patrol will hang for it. A tidy ending, for everyone, don't you think?"

Hitch glared mutely back at him. Dietrich? Slavers? Blamed on the Rat Patrol when it was the SS? None of this made sense to him. Troy would figure it out. All Hitch had to do was stay alive long enough to take it to him. The SS man patted Hitch's bruised cheek, hard. Hitch grimaced but didn't make any noise. There was a noise from the front of the tent, and the man straightened, turning away from Hitch.

Moffitt came across the tent floor from the newly-created slit in the back and knocked the German out with one chop across the back of the neck. Kicking him hard to make sure he was unconscious, Moffitt turned to Hitch and shook his head.

"Looks like the Jerries have been having a little fun, here," he whispered as he sliced through the ropes binding Hitch to the chair. Wrapping his arm around Hitch's waist, he half-led, half-earned him out the back of the tent to the jeep where Tully sat waiting. Hitch found himself deposited in the passenger seat, trying to breath shallowly, hanging on to the frame of the jeep with both hands.

"Troy?" Hitch mumbled. At least he tried to, although it came out sounding closer to "Drr?" Tully nodded reassurance. Moffitt patted his shoulder gently.

"He's all right. Waiting back at camp."

Then they were on their way, and Hitch closed his eyes and tried not to throw up every time they hit a bump in the dirt road. Eventually, hands tugged at his shoulders, and he fell out of the jeep and staggered to a seat on a handy rock. He worked his jaw gingerly and looked over at Troy, sitting on a rock opposite him, looking a little worse for the wear with a bandage wrapped around his head and dirt on his face.

''You okay, Sarge?" Hitch mumbled. Troy grinned at him.

"That should be my question, Hitch." The grin disappeared. "Got there as soon as we could. You all right?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle," he quipped out of the side of his mouth that still worked. Troy raised an eyebrow at him. ''Who was there, Sarge? You or me?"

Troy shook his head, laughing a little. ''You. Should've been me." Before Hitch could protest, Troy raised a hand. 'We'll get you on to HQ, have the medics take a look at you." Tully reached over and plopped a couple pills in Hitch's palm, holding out a canteen to him.

Hitch nodded thanks and gulped them down before raising his own hand. "First, gotta tell ya. I'm okay, and I think we got something to do first. I know why the krauts been buzzin' like a beehive." That got everyone's attention. Hitch nodded, carefully, feeling like his head might fall off if he moved too fast. "A big cheese from the SS was there. Said the slavers had Dietrich and we were gonna take the fall for it. Sounded like he set it up himself. You got any idea what he was talking about, Sarge?"

From the royally pissed-off look on Troy's face, he did. "Did you happen to get this guy's name, Hitch?"

Deciding not to make any smart-ass remarks about being busy at the time and not having his glasses on to read name tags, mainly because his jaw was really starting to ache, Hitch contented himself with shaking his head no. Then he squinted his eyes shut and waited for the dizziness to stop. When it did, he noticed Troy and Moffitt had their heads together. They looked worried. Tully was watching them and not looking too happy himself. Hitch cleared his throat noisily and they all looked back at him.

"Didn't get a name, but he looked familiar. Not just the uniform. Looked a lot like the kraut who nearly killed Moffitt that one time when we were trying to get the medicine back. Remember?"

''Yeah,'' Troy said softly. "I remember. And I think I have an idea who's got Dietrich."

''What are you thinking we should do about it?" Moffitt asked. He didn't sound like he usually did when the Sarge got a hair turned crosswise. He actually sounded ready to go, no questions asked. Troy glanced over at him.

"Get Dietrich back to his men before they finish what they started and hang us for his disappearance." To Hitch's surprise, Moffitt was nodding before Troy even finished.

"I have some contacts in the area. Slavers aren't well liked amongst the Arab populace, any more than amongst us. I'll see what I can find."

"Might want to hurry," Tully put in.

''Yeah,'' Troy agreed. ''They got a thing for blonds." They all three stared at him. He shrugged one shoulder. 'Wouldn't be the first time me and Dietrich tangled with them. Only this time, they've got the whole Patrol on their asses." He grinned, a hungry, mean look that made Hitch almost feel sorry for the Arabs.

Almost.

Moffitt took off toward town while Troy huddled with Tully figuring out a game plan. Hitch settled back into the sand for a little shut-eye, waiting for the aspirin to kick in. He had a feeling he was going to need all the juice he could get when the sky starting falling down.

~~~

The next time Dietrich opened his eyes, he was draped back over the horse, tied in place with a thick rope around his waist and ankles. Every muscle in his body ached, and he was terribly thirsty, but his mind was clear, so at least he hadn't gotten concussion earlier when he'd been abducted. With the number of times he'd been knocked out since coming to Africa, it was a wonder he had any brain left unbruised.

His uniform was gone. In its place was a long, loose shillahat. The cotton felt soft against his back and legs. There was an ache in his arse that extended halfway up his back and down into his thighs, but there was no burn that would indicate tearing or infection. His skin felt slightly oily as he shifted his weight, and he deduced that sometime after they'd finished they'd cleaned and medicated him. Otherwise he would be unable to move, probably off his head with fever, and completely worthless to them. Whatever else they might be, the slavers were businessmen. They would amuse themselves, but they wouldn't risk their profit.

Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, attempting to ignore the headache from the blood rushing to his head and the tight clench of thirst in his throat. The draperies of his kaffiyah gave his face some protection from the heat of the sun. By mid-morning he was in a half-asleep daze, rocking with the horse's gait. The sudden cessation of movement jolted him awake.

Behind him where he couldn't see what was happening, a new voice joined his captors'. Hands pressed along the length of his thighs, squeezing his buttock, and he yelped before he managed to bite his lip and control himself. Arabic flew fast and thick around him, and he tried to concentrate on deciphering the local dialect.

"Damaged? The price falls for damaged goods, my friend."

"Only a little bruised, Halim. He is a strong one. You will enjoy him."

The hand patted his thigh and stroked the length of his leg, stopping at the rope binding his ankles. "Spirited, too, it would appear."

The slaver gave a filthy laugh and agreed. "Quite the fighter! Taming him will be a challenge." Footsteps came around the horse, but Dietrich couldn't see anything through the folds of his headdress.

"Do you not think me capable, Argub?" The newcomer sounded more amused than offended. Dietrich remained as still as possible when the kaffiyah was swept out of the way and long fingers brushed through his hair. A second hand traced his cheekbone, down to the corner of his mouth. ''Very well." The hands left him and the cotton fell back in place, leaving him in diffused half-light. 'Take him to my bait sha'ar. Give him into Sabah's keeping for now. Quarter your men in the raba'a for the night. We will feast before you take your leave in the morning."

Dietrich felt more relief than he cared to admit at the words. If this Halim was busy feting his friends the slavers, then Dietrich might be able to escape while he was otherwise occupied. If he could steal a horse--and actually be able to sit on it long enough to get away-he might have a chance.

The horse was led through the tents, and Dietrich heard voices gossiping about him. There were no women or children that he could hear. It was either a group of hunters or scouts, or a brigand band. The rope holding him in place was untied and he was pulled off the horse. To his disgust, his knees collapsed out from under him. The two slavers hoisted him up by the arms and dragged him forward into a large, shady tent.

"Gently, gently," a deep voice boomed. Hands the size of platters took hold of him, lifting him away from the slavers as if he weighed no more than a child. "Sabah has him now. Off with you." Dietrich lifted his head to see a man-mountain staring appraisingly at him.

"Aren't you an exotic one, then," the giant murmured. Dietrich automatically shook his head 'no.' The giant laughed, a low rumble. "Contrary as well as beautiful! My master will like you."

Dietrich kept his mouth shut, submitting himself to the indignity of being stripped and bathed like a helpless babe. He had no choice. His arms and hands were numb from being tied behind his back for over a day and night. His legs were dead from having the circulation cut off by the horse's backbone all day and his muscles were cramping all over his body from the mistreatment the night before.

"Tsk, tsk," Sabah tutted his disapproval as he carefully tended to the scrapes and bruises covering Dietrich's body. "Such soft skin should be handled with care. Not beaten like an old carpet."

Draping Dietrich face-down over a fleecy rug, Sabah proceeded to massage him from his scalp to the soles of his feet. The sweet-scented oil he used was some kind of liniment, and Dietrich could literally feel the tension in his body dissolving as Sabah rubbed and kneaded. While he'd been able to keep back the sounds of distress when the huge hands first started working on him, by the end of the full-body treatment he couldn't help little noises of relief from escaping. Sabah kept up a running commentary of compliments, everything from the silkiness of his hair to the breadth of his shoulders to the firmness of his buttocks to the delicacy of his ankle bones. It was ridiculous and embarrassing.

He felt too relaxed and too exhausted to protest. A voice in his head was shrieking at him that he had to ready himself for escape. His abused muscles were having a hard time staying knitted to his bones, much less preparing to be used in any fashion whatsoever. Peering up at the giant working him over, Dietrich decided that he couldn't do anything while Sabah was there anyway, not without a bazooka at least as an equalizer. A gentle hand brushed back his fringe and stared into his eyes.

"Ah! Dark like rich sweet dates. Lovely."

Dietrich tried to glare and fell asleep before he managed it.

When he awoke, he felt incredibly better. The aches were gone from his muscles, his head had stopped pounding, and his mind was working again. The only residual effect from his ordeal was a raging thirst. He peered around the tent, trying to locate a water bag, already working out the details of his escape. Darkness had fallen, which was to his advantage. The only problems he could see were that he had no gun, no knowledge of his present location, no water, and no idea where the horses were kept. He was also stark naked, and he couldn't find anything in the vicinity with which to cover himself other than the fleece rug.

It wasn't quite big enough.

A chuckle from the entryway to the tent stopped him as he was trying to find a way to wrap the recalcitrant rug around his middle. He looked up to find a stranger staring back at him. The Arab was over six feet, broad shouldered, with long arms crossed over his chest. Curly hair framed his face and sherry-colored eyes laughed at him.

If it weren't for the fact that the man had bought him as a slave, Dietrich might have found him attractive. As it was, Dietrich really wanted a gun. And some clothes. And a horse. Preferably a panzer division out on the look-out for him.

"Leaving so soon? Before we have even had a chance to introduce ourselves?" The Arab shifted away from the tent wall and strode over to stand next to a small table on which rested a decanter and two goblets. Dietrich glared over at him. Their eyes were level.

"I am Halim. This is my home." He filled a goblet and handed it to Dietrich. "As sala'm alaikum!"

Even at a disadvantage, Dietrich's manners didn't fail him. Automatically returning the greeting, he thanked Halim for the wine. "Salaam ideek," blessed be your hands, although he was certain he wouldn't be blessing them by the time Halim got through with him.

Halim smiled approvingly. "You have taken the time to learn our language. More civilized than most of your kind."

Dietrich sipped the wine, blinking as the flavor exploded across his parched tongue. He managed not to gulp, but just barely. "I try. My name is Hauptmann Hans Dietrich." He drank more of the wine, running the tip of his tongue across his lips to catch a few drops that had escaped. Halim watched him closely. Dietrich felt himself blush. "Perhaps, as civilized men, we can discuss my ... captivity. A ransom might be arranged?" The last of the wine was gone, and Dietrich turned to replace the goblet on the table.

The world tilted.

His hands flew out to catch himself and Halim was behind him, an arm curled about his waist, holding him upright. Dietrich's head fell back against Halim's shoulder, suddenly too heavy to hold up. "Oh, no, my dear Hauptmann," Halim said softly into the side of his neck. "For if I were to release you, your previous captors have been paid to kill you. And that would be such a waste of fine flesh." Long-fingered hands stroked his hair back and warm lips nibbled at his jaw line, then trailed down his throat. "I will partake of what you have to offer, and you will live. Everyone wins, yes?"

Teeth worried lightly at the juncture of his throat and shoulder, the sensation sending a shiver down Dietrich's spine and preventing him from growling 'no!' as his mind insisted he must. 'Wine?" he slurred.

"Drugged," Halim confirmed merrily. "Not much. Merely enough to ensure your cooperation. For I find the act of love so much more enjoyable when there is no battle involved, don't you?"

Dietrich was nodding yes as Halim walked him over to the cushions in the corner of the tent and dropped him gently down on them. By the time Halim lowered himself over him and began to make a feast of him, Dietrich, still nodding yes, had no idea what he was agreeing to or why. The world was swimming again, he was warm and relaxed, and a talented mouth was driving him to the brink of insanity.

The night spun away as Halim seduced him, mouth and hands and body molding him as desired for mutual enjoyment. The present melted into a sensual haze, and Dietrich forgot where he was and who was pleasuring him, focusing solely on the mouth tracing fire along his body and the strength driving him into the soft cushions. He bucked back against the insistent intruder, moaning out his pleasure as he climaxed, hands working at the thick silk beneath him as he writhed lazily against the warm weight along his back. Halim's breathless encouragement wove into the background, the Arabic dialect translating into Oxford-accented English, as hazel eyes replaced sherry in his dream world. If Halim wondered who 'Moffitt' was he didn't ask.

Dietrich was too preoccupied with falling to pieces to worry about it. The next few days passed in a haze. Nights were taken up with drugged pleasure, days he slept, was tended by Sabah, and tried to clear his mind enough to escape. The second day he almost managed it.

Feigning sleep after Sabah had massaged him, Dietrich waited over half an hour before rising. He wrapped himself in a linen robe Halim had left behind the night before and crept out the side of the tent. Keeping his head down, he darted between three of the smaller tents, heading for the line of horses at the far side of the camp. It was evening meal, and the raiders were clustered around the fire, concentrating on their food. He had his hand on the lead rope of a dusty sorrel mare when hands caught him. One twisted his arm behind his back. The other held a knife to his throat.

"Halim!" the guard called.

Dietrich closed his eyes and waited to have his throat slit. Halim left the fire and came over to the horses, several of his men on his heels. When he saw Dietrich he started to laugh. Dietrich clenched his teeth and glared at him.

"Argub warned me of your spirit, Hauptmann! I should have taken greater heed of his caution. Good catch, Mifleh! You will be rewarded for your vigilance." Halim reached out and cupped Dietrich's tense jaw. ''You are mine," he said quietly, meeting Dietrich's fierce glare with an intense look of his own. "Until you realize this I will simply have to keep you drugged. Sabah!"

The giant came out of a nearby tent, bottle already in hand. He handed it to Halim with a bow, and Halim placed the lip of the bottle against Dietrich's mouth.

"Drink," he ordered. When Dietrich continued to glare at him and made no attempt to do so, he sighed. "Sabah," he nodded at Dietrich and Sabah moved up to join them.

The guard holding Dietrich took away his knife, and Sabah tilted Dietrich's head back, pinching his nostrils at the same time. When Dietrich finally opened his mouth to gasp for air, Halim emptied half the bottle down his throat. It was a case of drink or drown.

He drank.

The world went hazy again, and the next time he was cognizant, he was lying on his back with Halim between his legs, his heels over Halim's shoulders. He stared up at the roof of the tent, accepting Halim inside him, the hands on his body coaxing a response he was too drugged to deny. Closing his eyes, he took refuge the only way he could, and in his fantasy, Halim became Moffitt and the pleasure he couldn't escape became bearable.

After that, he wasn't left alone or sober long enough to try again. It didn't stop him from thinking about it, though, in a disconnected, wishful way. When it happened, he nearly didn't recognize rescue for what it was.

~~~

It took a day of following whispers, but Moffitt caught the right rumor at last.

Blending in with the Badw in his native dress, he listened carefully. One name caught his ear.

"He was bragging about it. Got paid twice, once to bag and kill the devil, once to hand him over to Halim."

"Halim? Devil must have been a pretty one. I'm surprised he survived long enough to sell him off. Argub isn't known for being easy on them."

"Not a very smart one, is he?" a third voice piped up. ''Trying to pass off damaged goods. He cheats Halim, he'll end up with his eyes put out and his tongue cut open."

The first man laughed. "Better to cheat the devils than Halim. Take their gold and do what you wish, that's what I say!"

Moffitt huddled in his corner, kept his head down and his ears open. By the end of a very long night, he had the information they needed.

"The slaver's name is Argub," he reported back to the rest of the Patrol. "He's from a village not far from here, but he's not particularly popular, since when he can't find foreigners to sell he preys on the locals. The word is that he was offered a large bounty by a foreigner last week, to capture a particular man and kill him. Instead he sold him to a raider operating south of here. With a little digging I found out where they were last seen."

Troy nodded decisively. 'We need to get Dietrich back before he tries something stupid and they kill him for it. Knowing him, we haven't got a lot of time. Let's shake it."

The Rat Patrol came upon the camp mid-day a week after Dietrich had disappeared. Troy gestured for them to come to a halt and reconnoiter a short distance from the camp behind a brushy ridge. All four of them scrabbled up the hill to lie on their bellies and stare down at the Arab encampment. Troy handed Moffitt the field glasses and he swept the area of attack.

Five tents, two cook-fire pits, a string of horses. The largest tent was to the far north of the camp. They'd have to circle around and come in from the opposite side. Cover would be a problem. They'd have to hit fast, preferably while the majority of the men were still sleeping. Which meant early morning hours. Moffitt nodded. Troy grinned at him, a death's-head expression. They'd been working together so long they didn't have to say anything.

Scuttling back down the dune, they got in their respective jeeps and worked their way slowly into position. No sentries were kept so far from the main camp with such a small band, and they were able to creep within hearing distance by the time dawn was breaking

The first guard fell to Troy's knife at his throat, the horses whickering softly in distress at the smell of blood. The second died when Tully broke his neck, as he came to his mate's aid. Camp sentries taken out, the Patrol slipped back to their jeeps and moved in for the kill.

The flap moved on the main tent and a tall man in a dark flowing kaffiyah, the one they'd marked as the leader during their earlier reconnaissance, strode out.

Moffitt took him down with his first shot.

The jeeps wheeled in from opposite sides of the camp on the heels of the first shot.

Screams and cries filled the air as the raiders leapt for their rifles and were cut down before they could untangle themselves from their blankets. As Tully slung the jeep to a halt next to the largest tent and Moffitt flung himself down to go in after Dietrich, the largest man he'd ever seen in his life came roaring out at him. Moffitt barely threw himself to the side in time to escape being crushed by the platter-sized fists heading his way.

Tully grabbed up his rifle and swung it around, firing as he drew. Moffitt kept his head down as the bullets flew over him, slamming into the huge man and cutting him nearly in half. When the spatter of bullets stopped, Moffitt scuttled around the side of the giant corpse and dove into the tent.

Dietrich was there, all right. Sound asleep and starkers. Moffitt swallowed with a mouth that suddenly went as dry as the sand. "Dietrich?" he croaked. The tousled head against the bright silk pillow moved restlessly.

"Moffitt?" The normally crisp voice was slurred. Moffitt cursed softly. Drugged, no doubt. He glanced around, grabbing up a discarded shillahat and moving over to the pile of cushions on which Dietrich lay sprawled. Dazed brown eyes peered blurrily up at him.

''Yes, here to get you out. Can you sit up?" He was reaching to help even as he asked. Dietrich's skin felt impossibly smooth under his hands, and Moffitt bit his lip, fighting the temptation to linger. 'We haven't much time. Bloody he1l!" The curse slipped out as he noticed the fine chain running from a manacle around Dietrich's left wrist to a peg hammered into the ground. He yanked at the chain but the peg didn't shift. "No time for this!" Dietrich's right hand was running drowsily up and down Moffitt's sleeve. Moffitt swallowed again and scowled ferociously at the chain, trying to ignore his body's reaction to Dietrich's roaming fingers.

'What's the hold-up?" Troy ducked into the tent and loped over to them. "Shit," he added when he saw the chain. Then he whipped out the Bowie knife he carried in a sheath in his boot and headed toward Dietrich.

"Troy!" Moffitt protested instinctively. Troy gave him a dirty look and set about prying open the link binding the manacle to the chain. "Oh." Moffitt blushed slightly and concentrated on dressing what parts of Dietrich he could reach while Troy worked on the chain.

"Got it!"

The link slid apart far enough for Troy to pull the manacle free, and Moffitt shoved Dietrich's now-free hand through the second sleeve of the caftan. Then he bent and took the weight of the drugged man over his shoulder, running in Troy's wake back out of the tent and over to the tents. The camp was oddly silent after the earlier noisy carnage. Moffitt spared a single glance for the bodies of the dead raiders scattered all over the camp, then dumped Dietrich as gently as he could into the passenger seat of the jeep. Hopping into the back, he wrapped his arms around the semi-conscious man and held him in place as they raced back out into the desert.

There were no survivors to follow them, but Troy hadn't kept the Rat Patrol alive for as long as he had by taking foolish chances. Several miles away from the ruins of the raiders' camp, in the shade of a few scrawny trees by an oasis Moffitt led them to, they stopped for rest and to check Dietrich's condition. Moffitt, with Tully's help, lifted Dietrich out of the jeep and leaned him against a rock. Moffitt laid his hand against Dietrich's pale cheek, trying to gauge his body temperature.

"How's he doing?" Troy asked, hunkering down beside them.

"No fever that I can detect, but he's been thoroughly drugged." Bleary brown eyes opened and stared at them for a moment before drifting closed again. Moffitt exchanged a glance with Troy, not allowing himself to grin.

"Tanked off his ass," Troy offered. The grin broke free.

"Looks like it." Moffitt absently fiddled with the manacle still encircling Dietrich's wrist, trying to find a way to open it.

"Leave it," Troy ordered. Moffitt gave him an inquiring look. "Proves to the Germans who had him. Gets us off the hook."

Nodding his understanding, Moffitt dropped Dietrich's hand back into his lap. The long fingers curled into a loose fist, looking oddly defenseless. A surge of fury ran through him that Dietrich's own people should do this to him. True, it was the SS, not the Wehrmacht, but they were still Germans, and that they should do this to one of their own infuriated him. That, and the fact that in the end, he, Moffitt, was the root cause of this. Had it not been for saving Moffitt's life, Dietrich would never have shot Wansee, and none of this would have happened. Moffitt wasn't aware his hand had tightened into a fist until Troy tapped his knuckles gently.

"You okay?" The concern under the gruff voice brought Moffitt back to himself. 'Yes. Only ... angry."

Troy shrugged his shoulders. ''They've done worse. No doubt will do more, before all this mess comes to an end." He squinted up at the sun, then looked back down at Dietrich. 'We're over a hundred miles inland. No way we're going to make it back to the German lines today." He straightened up, looking over to where Tully and Hitch were fussing with the jeeps. 'We'll head back, make camp tonight, finish it up tomorrow. Want to be on our toes when we make the exchange. Whoever's behind this will make his move then, and we have to stop him."

Moffitt nodded, then leaned forward to wrap his arm around Dietrich's waist.

Taking the unresisting weight along his side, he draped Dietrich's arm around his neck and held tightly to his hand, walking him over to the jeep.

"Moffitt?" Dietrich asked quietly again, rousing slightly and struggling against Moffitt's hold.

"Right here," Moffitt assured him quickly. Dietrich calmed down immediately, leaving Moffitt to wonder about the man's response. As he lowered Dietrich into the passenger seat, the manacle caught on his collar, and he paused, crouched over Dietrich, to untangle the metal from the cotton. Soft breath against his cheek caused him to turn his head and meet Dietrich's gaze, less cloudy now but still not completely coherent.

"'Bout bloody time. Du bist ein Schatz," Moffitt grinned at the unexpected compliment.

"Holzkopf," he returned affectionately. Dietrich nodded sleepily and collapsed against the seat. Moffitt shook his head. By the time Dietrich slept this off, Moffitt was going to have so much ammunition with which to tease him, Dietrich wouldn't stand a chance. He was rather looking forward to their next truce.

They made camp early that night. By the time the fire was built, Dietrich was sitting up under his own steam, albeit listing slightly to starboard. They were holed up in a small series of caves along a cliff wall, an excellent defensive position should any of the dead bandits' brothers come looking for vengeance. Moffitt glanced over at Dietrich, staring mindlessly into the fire, and sidled over beside Troy.

"I'll watch over Dietrich," he offered quietly. ''There's a smaller cave branching off this one, just behind us. It would be easier to contain him if he's sequestered in there, should he get any odd ideas of running off."

Troy looked at, and through, him. Moffitt maintained his best poker face against the searching regard. He had the feeling Troy knew precisely why Moffitt wanted to get Dietrich alone in a reasonably private place, a silly feeling since Moffitt himself wasn't quite certain. Whatever Troy saw must have reassured him, because he gave Moffitt a quick grin.

"Okay, take him back and put him to bed. Tully," he raised his voice and Tully looked up alertly from where he'd been cleaning his rifle, "you take first watch. I'll take second and Hitch third. Moffitt's got the prisoner."

Dietrich watched him through his lashes as Moffitt helped him stand. They staggered slightly on the way into the smaller cave, but neither made comment. Once inside, the heat from the fire in the main cave bled away quickly. Moffitt noticed Dietrich shivering and sat about making a small fire for the two of him. He had a merry little blaze going before he looked up to catch Dietrich's brooding gaze on him. He settled back on the sand and raised a questioning brow.

"Am I?" Dietrich asked quietly. Moffitt cocked his head to one side, staring back. "Are you what?"

''Your prisoner." Dietrich didn't sound particularly concerned about the answer.

Moffitt shrugged.

"Not really. We rescued you."

Dietrich shifted on the sand, ending his movement with his knee pressed against Moffitt's thigh. 'Who paid the slavers?"

'We don't know," Moffitt admitted. His voice echoed oddly in the tight quarters and he lowered his voice. "All we know is that we didn't, but your men blamed us for it. Determined buggers, they are." That earned him a tired smile from Dietrich. Moffitt returned it and tossed another twig on the fire. 'We had to get you back for them, if only to get them off our backs."

"Oberleutnant Frevert is a capable and loyal officer. He would do his best to find me, or to punish those he thought responsible for my disappearance."

"That he did," Moffitt admitted, shifting himself so that he and Dietrich were sitting side by side, shoulders touching. Dietrich didn't shift away. Moffitt took that for a promising sign.

''What next?" Dietrich's voice dropped, and Moffitt found himself leaning closer in order to hear the words. Whatever his captors had used on his skin gave him a wonderfully spicy smell, and Moffitt breathed deeply as unobtrusively as possible.

"We take you back to your lines and give you back." He hadn't been consciously aware of it, but sometime during the conversation Moffitt had picked the manacled wrist back up and was playing with it. Dietrich's palm turned under his, and their fingers caught. Moffitt stared at their entwined hands.

"Thank you," Dietrich said softly. Moffitt turned his head to stare into Dietrich's face. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were haunted.

"Are you all right?" The question was out before he could stop it. Dietrich smiled, a singularly humorless stretch of his lips that bared his teeth in a snarl.

"No, but I will be." Dietrich raised his left hand and brought it up to Moffitt's face, tracing the shadows the fire painted under his cheekbone. ''You saved my sanity."

Moffitt sat completely still under the questing fingers, but had to ask, "How? By getting you out of there?"

'Yes,' Dietrich answered vaguely, "and before." He leaned forward and covered Moffitt's mouth with his own before Moffitt could ask what he meant.

Since his lips were parted to speak, the kiss caught him off-guard, pressing deeply before he could adequately prepare for it. His tongue rose to meet Dietrich's, and in an instant they were kissing as hungrily as the first time they'd held one another, in a tiny room above a bar months before. It took several moments before Moffitt gathered his senses enough to break the kiss. By that time both men were panting lightly.

"This is not a good idea," Moffitt muttered. Dietrich simply looked at him. Moffitt took a deep breath and tried to regain his self-control. "Before we got sidetracked, I was about to check your injuries."

He made a movement with his hand toward the small medical bag he'd brought with him, stopping when he realized his fingers were still wound tightly with Dietrich's. With more care than was warranted, he unwrapped their hands and scooted until there was an inch of sand between them. Dietrich sat silently and watched him.

Grateful that the neck-opening on the shillahat was wide, Moffitt eased over until he was behind Dietrich and slid the garment off his shoulder. There were a few bruises along his shoulders and ribs, some nearly-healed abrasions scattered along his skin, but for the most part he looked remarkably healthy for having been a slave for the past several days. Of course, given that he'd been chained to the bed when they found him, Moffitt wasn't too surprised at his condition.

"Doesn't look too bad from here," he pronounced. Dietrich glanced up at him over his shoulder.

"That wasn't where the damage was done," he informed Moffitt tonelessly. Moffitt licked his lips and swallowed, trying to moisten a mouth gone inconveniently dry again.

"Oh?" he assayed with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Dietrich closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, he looked more himself than he had since they'd rescued him. Mischief warred with command in his expression. His hands dropped to the hem of his caftan and he raised it until his legs were bare. Moffitt found his eyes glued to the skin slowly being uncovered.

"Oh," he said again, in a completely different voice. In an instant he was moving, toppling Dietrich over in a controlled fall, hands roving up under the cotton fabric until they were cupping Dietrich's arse. "Here, perhaps?" His voice was husky. Dietrich nodded, his face solemn but his eyes sparkling.

Then Dietrich's hands were working on the fastening of Moffitt's trousers, and Moffitt's brain shut down. They moved carefully, mindful of the cramped quarters, the fire beside them, the others just beyond the rock wall. Mouths muffled cries while hands worked tender flesh until neither could stop. It was nothing complicated, simply fingers sketching the stretch of muscles under skin, the press of a thigh, the heat of long arms wrapped around one another as their bodies moved together. But it was gentle, and it was enough.

Morning found them dressed again, sitting side by side, silently. Troy poked his head through the entrance to the tiny cave as dawn broke.

"Everything okay?" His eyes as he looked at Moffitt made it perfectly clear he knew exactly what he was asking. There was nothing but warmth in them. Moffitt gave him a quick smile. He nodded, and Troy shared the grin equally with Dietrich, who snorted lightly and shook his head in mild disbelief. 'Then let's shake it. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

As easily as that, they were on their way.

By mid-afternoon of an uneventful ride back, Hitch sighted a scouting group bearing Wehrmacht insignia. Dietrich sat upright and peered ahead intently. Moffitt was content to note no discomfort in his bearing, as he himself stood up to man the gun. They swerved off to the side behind some dunes before the Germans could spot them, then shadowed them all the way back to their camp. Dietrich muttered to himself about incompetence for several miles before Moffitt leaned forward and asked him sweetly, "Care to share?"

The glare he received in return nearly fried him to a crisp. He whistled under his breath the rest of the way in. It was even more enjoyable than he had anticipated to tease Dietrich. Tully grinned but kept his mouth shut.

As they came in close to the German lines, all sound ceased, and everyone tensed up slightly. Troy motioned for a stop some way to the side of the encampment. He hopped down from his jeep and trotted over to lean next to Dietrich.

"Here's where it gets tricky."

Dietrich stared up at him. 'Why not simply leave me here and allow me to return to my troops?"

Moffitt looked over him at Troy. Troy met his gaze, then looked down at Dietrich.

"'Cause somebody already tried to kill you once. When whoever it is figures out that he failed, he'll try again. This time he could finish the job, and we'd be right back where we started. Blamed for something we didn't do, with a personal vendetta getting in the way of business as usual."

Dietrich's stare changed to wry acknowledgment. ''Vengeance cannot be allowed to get in the way of the war." He nodded to show he agreed. "Besides, I don't know who my enemy is-this way, at least, he will be flushed out."

Moffitt and Troy exchanged looks again. Dietrich caught them at it and asked, exasperated, 'What?"

'We don't know precisely who is behind your abduction, captain, but we know what he is." Troy's voice was serious. Dietrich motioned for him to continue. "A high-up with the SS bragged to Hitch that he had you taken by the slavers."

Dietrich froze.

"I take it you know who we mean?" Moffitt asked, watching him closely.

"Ja, but why?" Dietrich shook his head. 'This makes no sense."

"Does the SS ever make sense?" Troy asked rhetorically. Before Dietrich could give him an answer anyway, he hurried on. "So, we go in together."

Dietrich shut his mouth and nodded.

Troy, with Dietrich beside him and Moffitt flanking them, left Tully and Hitch with the jeeps and crept toward the camp. Moffitt felt as if his head was on a spring, trying to look every direction at once. The wind had dropped and the night felt unnaturally still.

At the side of the command tent, Troy lured out the sentry and cold -cocked him before Dietrich could protest. When he saw the black uniform the man wore, the protest died unaired. Moffitt saw Dietrich's jaw clench so tightly a muscle was quivering in his cheek. Bringing his rifle up, alert for every sound, they burst into the command tent in a tight formation.

Oberleutnant Frevert stood beside a table, caught mid-word arguing about pursuit paths to get his Hauptmann back. Standartenfiihrer Ulbricht sat, exuding arrogance, telling Frevert flat-out that Dietrich was dead and their primary goal was to exterminate the Rat Patrol. The sudden entrance of nearly everyone under discussion stopped the argument in its tracks.

"Brought ya something," Troy cracked.

"Hauptmann Dietrich!" Frevert had his pistol half out of the holster when he stopped in place, staring at his apparently-unharmed captain in shock.

"Verdammt noch mal!" Ulbricht spat, scrabbling for his own gun and surging from his seat.

Dietrich jumped forward and knocked his adjutant out of Ulbricht's sights.

"Kotzbrockeni" he snarled at the SS officer, reaching for a gun he wasn't carrying.

"Down!" yelled Moffitt. Troy and Dietrich, still holding on to Frevert, flew in opposite directions, hitting the deck with alacrity, leaving Moffitt a clear shot and ruining Ulbricht's. Both guns went off simultaneously. Ulbricht's bullet bit harmlessly into a wooden chest a foot from Dietrich's head.

Moffitt's bullet took Ulbricht dead-center in the heart. The colonel was dead before he hit the ground.

'Welcome home, Captain," Moffitt sang out cheerfully, then he and Troy gave Dietrich, still sprawled atop young Frevert, jaunty salutes before ducking back out of the tent.

"Danke, damn you," was the last thing Moffitt heard clearly as they made tracks back to the jeeps. Frevert's voice was babbling questions, and Dietrich was trying to answer them, as the Rat Patrol sped off into the night.

~~~

Moffitt never told Troy what happened that night in the cave. Troy never asked. The war continued as usual. With one exception.

The next time he had to fire at Dietrich, Moffitt aimed for his gun hand, not his heart.

Dietrich returned the favor.

finis


End file.
